tornia 
rial 

ty 


r  J^BBI  v 

Sffl 


LOUISE   CLOSSER 


WV^V^VVWV^WWWL.^WWWUWVW^VWVVV^. 

DT 

V 

), 

:; 

THE 

t 

Y 

•*< 

ACTRESS 

1 

'r 

A  -Xuurl 

f. 

>. 

V 

s< 

Y 

}< 

x 

V 

BY 

/ 

LOUISE  CLOSSER  HALE 

X 

y 

X 

•J 

X 

ILLUSTRATED 

X 
X 

V 

X 

X 

• 

Y 

J 

x 

X 

X 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

X 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

rn 

M  C  M  I  X 

IM 

»' 

Copyright,  1909,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

Copyright,  1908,  1909,  by 
THB  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 
Published  February,  1909. 


STACK 
ANNEX 

M 
_? 


H'35 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"WE  HAVE  GREATLY  ENJOYED  THE  WHOLE 

PLAY,  MISS  MILLER,"  THE  KING  SAID  Frontispiece 

WE  KEPT  UP  A  STREAM  OF  CONVERSATION, 

AND  ON  ONE  TOPIC  ONLY — THE  PLAY  Facing  p.  I2O 

"JANIE!"  HE  CRIED "      272 

I  LAY  IN  HIS  ARMS  IN  A  BIG  CHAIR,  THIN 
AND    SHAKY    AND    MISERABLE    AND 

HAPPY 


THE    ACTRESS 


THE    ACTRESS 


i 


I  KEPT  Aaron  waiting  last  night,  and  we 
didn't  get  into  the  Moon  Room  at  the  Astor 
until  it  had  almost  set — meaning  the  moon. 
At  least  the  musicians  were  far  enough  ad 
vanced  in  the  programme  to  be  playing  "'The 
Rosary,'  by  request,"  and  all  the  men  and 
women  supping  together  were  sitting  back  in 
their  chairs  looking  dreamily  at  one  another, 
which  is  the  thing  to  do  when  "The  Rosary" 
is  being  played. 

Aaron,  who  was  hungry  but  amiable,  said  he 
was  really  glad  he  missed  the  number,  as  he 
would  have  been  the  only  man  in  the  room  who 
continued  to  think  of  the  girl  opposite  him. 
The  rest  of  the  men  and  all  of  the  women — this 
pointedly  at  me — were  each  thinking  of  some  one 
else  and  some  other  occasion.  "That  is  a  way 
'The  Rosary '  has,"  he  concluded.  I  laughed  at 


THE    ACTRESS 

this,  and  did  not  protest  against  his  assertion 
that  I  was  not  thinking  of  him,  as  of  course  he 
hoped  I  would,  but  way  down  in  my  indifferent 
heart  I  was  admiring  him  very  much. 

Next  to  my  art,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world 
so  attractive  as  a  perfectly  clean,  perfectly 
sound  New  York  business  man  in  a  dinner-coat. 
There  are  other  types  who  are  not  to  be  sneered 
at.  The  professional  man,  with  his  eager,  nip 
ping  air,  is  stimulating,  and  the  idler,  who  has 
never  done  a  stroke,  but  whose  father  has,  is  as 
pleasant  to  look  upon  as  clothes,  good  sport, 
and  one  generation  of  leisure  can  make  him. 
But  I  like  the  type  that  even  at  thirty-five  has 
a  few  lines  about  the  mouth  that  come  from  set 
jaws  during  the  business  hours,  shrewd  eyes 
that  can  be  kind  and  terrible,  square  shoulders 
that  were  put  to  the  plough  when  a  youngster, 
and  the  well-ordered,  limited  speech  of  a  man 
who  has  learned  the  use  of  his  tongue  in  a 
country  college  and  the  control  of  it  in  a  city 
office. 

As  it  happens,  this  very  well  describes  Aaron, 
but  it  just  so  happens.  There  are  dozens  of 
brokers  quite  as  clean-shaven,  with  hair  brushed 
quite  as  nicely,  and  with  quite  as  unmanicured 
but  well-kept  hands  as  his,  and  none  of  them  so 

2 


THE    ACTRESS 

pig-headed.  That  is  his  great  fault — he  will 
not  see  things  as  I  see  them.  He  would  rather 
be  rude. 

"Aaron,"  I  said,  while  waiting  for  the  clams, 
"I  was  detained  to-night  to  talk  to  the  stage- 
manager.  He  believes  I  can  get  a  good  laugh 
and  a  good  hand  on  my  last  exit  if  I  fall  right 
through  the  long  window  backward,  as  though 
the  shutters  had  given  way.  What  do  you 
think  ?" 

"Making  a  monkey  of  yourself,"  was  Aaron's 
only  comment,  as  he  savagely  scratched  a 
match. 

Now  this  was  not  kind,  but  I  was  too  accus 
tomed  to  such  remarks  to  resent  them  very 
deeply.  I  only  looked  gently  reproachful. 

"It's  perfectly  legitimate,"  I  continued — "she 
is  in  a  state  of  great  excitement  and  backs  up 
to  the  opening  not  knowing  it  is  there." 

"Who  catches  you  on  the  other  side?"  de 
manded  my  companion,  suspiciously. 

"How  can  you  be  so  silly!"  I  exclaimed.  "I 
suppose  one  of  the  stage-hands  will.  You  can 
never  depend  on  an  actor,  or  I'd  ask  one  of  the 
company  to  look  after  me." 

Aaron  deliberated  a  minute,  tortured  twixt 
Scylla  and  Charybdis.  "Better  have  a  stage- 

3 


THE    ACTRESS 

hand,"  he  finally  advised.  "They're  dirty,  but 
at  least  they  work  for  their  living." 

I  was  devouring  the  third  clam  by  this  time, 
and  it  was  very  cold  and  good,  but  I  put  down 
my  fork  and  reached  for  my  fur.  Aaron  fore 
stalled  me  by  hurriedly  seizing  it. 

"You  know  perfectly  well,"  I  stormed,  "that 
I  will  not  have  my  profession  abused." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  abuse  it,"  he  replied,  hum 
bly,  the  while  sitting  on  my  fur.  "But  I  can't 
hang  around  my  club  every  night  and  think  of 
you  bouncing  about  like  a  rubber  ball  from  one 
man's  arms  to  another  and  keep  calm." 

"Then  come  to  the  theatre  and  see  me  do 
it,"  I  retorted. 

Aaron  behaved  astonishingly  bad. 

"Never  again,"  he  declared,  flipping  Ta 
basco  sauce  everywhere.  "Never  again.  Come 
to  the  theatre  to  see  your  dear  face  made  old 
and  hideous,  and  that  absurd  wig  dragged 
down  over  my  child's  eyes,  and  every  time  you 
show  those  disgusting  white  stockings  hear  a 
roar  of  laughter  ?  If  I  ever  get  in  there  again 
I'll  smash  the  whole  audience." 

"You  know  that  when  I  do  bounce  in  and 
out  of  men's  arms  it's  all  comedy,"  I  went  on. 
"How  would  you  like  to  have  me  a  leading 

4 


THE    ACTRESS 

woman  making  love  and  being  made  love  to 
through  every  act  ?  A  character  woman  doesn't 
have  that  to  undergo,  anyway." 

"Undergo,"  almost  sneered  Aaron.  "I  sup 
pose  you  claim  a  stage  kiss  is  physical  and  men 
tal  agony  ?" 

It  was  well  the  band  was  playing  "Dixie" 
and  everybody  was  applauding,  for  I  vulgarly 
shrieked  my  answer. 

"I  say  to  you  now  and  for  all,  Aaron  Adams, 
that  a  stage  kiss  is  a  piece  of  stage  business  like 
sitting  down  or  getting  up,  only  a  little  more 
exacting  for  fear  one  will  get  rouge  on  the  other's 
cheek." 

"Don't  say  'you'  when  speaking  to  me,"  he 
replied,  looking  dangerous.  "I'm  not  an  actor." 

When  Aaron  looks  dangerous  I  get  sort  of 
weak  and  my  hands  go  loose  in  my  lap. 

"Aaron,  only  tell  me,"  I  said,  "what  do  you 
want  me  to  talk  about — what  do  you  want  me  to 
do  ?"  There  was  a  break  in  my  voice.  Char 
acter  women  are  not  supposed  to  do  these 
things,  but  I  knew  the  trick. 

Aaron  poured  out  my  ale  and  helped  me  to 
chicken  and  ham.  He  wasn't  dangerous  any 
more;  as  a  motorist  would  say,  spelling  the  word 
differently,  the  "brake  set." 

5 


THE    ACTRESS 

"You  know  what  I  want.  I  want  you  to  give 
up  this  work  on  the  stage  and  be  my  wife.  I 
want  you  to  let  me  love  you  and  shelter  you, 
and  keep  you  safely  and  warmly  housed  on 
cold,  wet  nights,  and  on  days  when  your  head 
aches  are  bad  to  give  you  the  care  that  you  de 
serve.  Think  of  a  little,  nervous  girl  like  you, 
with  your  pretty,  tired  face  covered  with  a  map 
of  queer  wrinkles,  prancing  about  for  a  lot  of 
lazy,  idle  humans  to  giggle  over.  I  tell  you, 
darling,  there  is  nothing  in  it.  And — I  want 
you — I  want  you." 

As  his  voice  went  husky,  not  from  weak  emo 
tion,  but  from  a  great  singleness  of  purpose,  I 
turned  as  I  had  often  done  before  and  looked 
perplexedly  into  the  mirror  in  the  side  of  the 
wall.  I  looked  at  the  shell  of  me  in  the  glass, 
and  I  rewondered  how  a  big,  broad  man  could 
struggle  so  long  for  a  small,  colorless,  thin  girl 
of  twenty-two  —  a  girl  who  didn't  want  him, 
didn't  want  any  one,  didn't  want  anything  ex 
cept  to  be  left  alone,  to  always  have  a  fair  part 
in  an  agreeable  company,  and  a  dressing-room 
near  enough  to  the  others  to  borrow  rouge  and 
exchange  gossip  without  effort.  I  had  said  some 
of  these  things  to  Aaron  before,  and  I  pushed 
away  my  chicken  and  ham  preparing  to  say 

6 


THE    ACTRESS 

them  all  over  again.  I  can't  claim  that  it  was 
altogether  tiresome;  talking  about  one's  self  sel 
dom  is.  However,  I  pretended  it  was.  My — 
one  might  say — opponent  had  gripped  his  nap 
kin  with  both  hands,  arms  down,  and  held  it 
tightly  across  his  knees  ready  for  my  invariable 
arguments. 

"Aaron,"  I  began,  wearily,  "I'll  go  back  a 
little  further  than  usual,  and  perhaps  to-night 
you'll  see  things  straight.  You  know  well  that 
ever  since  I  was  old  enough  to  remember  anything 
at  all  I  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage.  I  couldn't 
have  been  over  six  or  seven  when  I  signed  all 
the  pledges  at  a  temperance  revival,  forswear 
ing  gin,  tobacco,  and  blasphemy.  It  was  not 
at  all  because  I  had  religion,  but  because  I  saw 
that  the  converted  ones  were  allowed  to  recite 
texts  from  the  platform.  I  wanted  to  recite, 
too,  and  I  did.  My  mother  and  father  were  al 
ready  dead,  and  the  distant  relatives  who  brought 
me  up  were  of  that  poor  type  of  villagers  who 
felt  I  was  started  on  the  right  path,  and  who 
gladly  sewed  gold  stars  on  my  little  white  dress 
and  taught  me  a  verse  from  the  Bible. 

o  . 

"I  regret  to  say — and  this  has  happened  since 
—that  I  became  so  interested  over  my  stars  I 
gave  small  time  to  the  text,  and  the  result  was, 

7 


THE    ACTRESS 

after  I  had  climbed  to  the  platform  and  met  an 
awful  mass  of  faces,  I  couldn't  remember  a 
word  of  it.  Everything  whirled  around,  my 
knees  beat  together,  and  I  went  through  all  the 
agonies  of  the  stage  fright  which  is  every  actor's 
'first -night'  companion.  But,  Aaron  dear,  I 
would  not  leave  the  rostrum.  Other  forgetful 
children  who  had  given  up  drinking,  chewing, 
and  swearing  were  lifted  down  with  bellowings; 
but  not  I.  I  was  born  to  the  stage,  and  I  did 
not  intend  to  leave  it.  I  believe  that  my  verse 
was  nothing  more  difficult  than  'Wine  is  a 
mocker,  strong  drink  is  raging,'  and  when  at 
last,  after  an  endless  silence,  a  good  mother 
who  knew  the  power  of  suggestion  called, 
*  Think  of  something  with  liquor  in  it/  the  ad 
vice  of  the  wise  apostle  hopped  into  my  mind, 
and  'Take  a  little  wine  for  your  stomach's 
sake,'  I  shrieked,  in  proud  relief." 

Aaron  tried  not  to  laugh.  I  was  never  en 
couraged  in  my  plea  for  the  stage;  but  the 
waiter  who  was  serving  the  salad  sniggered, 
and  even  gallery  appreciation  was  welcome. 
Somewhat  elated,  I  went  on: 

"The  whole  point  is  this:  instead  of  being 
even  more  paralyzed  by  the  roar  of  laughter 
which  went  up,  and  swelled,  and  doubled  until 

8 


THE    ACTRESS 

it  resolved  itself  into  hand-clapping,  I  was  ab 
solutely  fascinated.  Previous  to  that  I  had 
thought  there  could  he  no  sweeter  music  in  the 
world  than  the  brass-band  which  escorted  the 
minstrels  along  Main  Street  whenever  they 
came  to  town,  and  I  remember  feeling  vaguely 
how  unjust  it  was  that  my  sex  forbid  my  ever 
wearing  a  silk  hat  and  marching  to  a  glorious 
quick-step.  But  the  revival  episode  made  me 
realize  that  there  were  higher  ambitions,  and 
the  wave  of  laughter  carried  me  out  on  a  sea  of 
unshaped  dreams." 

I  stopped  at  this.  Aaron's  eyes  were  twinkling 
at  my  rhetoric.  "  'Unshaped  '  dreams  is  good," 
he  commented.  "You  should  have  had  a  jelly- 
mould." 

"I  sha'n't  go  on,"  I  said,  "if  you  make  fun 
of  me." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  on,"  he  retorted.  " I 
want  you  to  eat  some  of  this  salad  and  be  my 
wife." 

"Please,  no — it's  too  vinegary." 

"What?  To  be  my  wife?  Oh,  little  love, 
give  a  man  a  chance." 

"I  mean  the  lettuce,  of  course.  And  you 
mustn't  talk  that  way,  for  the  waiter  can  hear." 

"Well,  I  can't  talk  any  other  way,  waiter  or 
9 


THE    ACTRESS 

no  waiter.  If  you're  so  shameless  as  to  tell 
your  life  story  before  him,  then  go  ahead.  I'll 
bet  a  hat  he's  on  my  side,  anyway." 

So  I  went  on  without  minding  either  Aaron 
or  the  boy.  'There  isn't  much  more  to  tell. 
When  I  was  a  little  older  I  began  to  know  just 
what  it  was  I  wanted,  and  as  I  had  long  been 
granted  the  medal  as  the  leading  elocutionist  of 
the  village,  the  general  opinion  was  that — when 
the  time  was  ripe — it  was  only  fair  to  the  stage 
that  it  should  have  me." 

"I  suppose  you  call  fifteen  'when  the  time 
was  ripe,'"  interrupted  Aaron,  excitedly. 

"No,  I  don't,"  I  admitted.  "I  was  too 
young;  but  I  had  been  to  a  high -school,  my 
relatives  wanted  to  move  to  a  farm,  which  I 
didn't  want,  and  I  had  an  opportunity  to  go 
East  with  the  minister." 

s '  East  with  the  minister' !    Oh,  Lord,"  groan 
ed  Aaron,  drinking  ale  rapidly. 

"It  was  an  excellent  plan,"  I  asserted,  and 
then  I  put  my  hands  to  my  face  and  laughed  a 
little.  I  wouldn't  bore  Aaron  with  the  details 
of  my  departure — how  the  town  came  down  to 
see  the  minister  and  me  off,  and  the  G.  A.  R.'s, 
for  whom  I  had  recited  many  times,  gave  me  a 
large  pictorial  Shakespeare.  How  I  was  so  ex- 

10 


THE    ACTRESS 

cited  I  didn't  feel  at  all  like  crying,  and  yet, 
seeing  my  relatives  do  it,  I  suddenly  realized 
that  I  should,  too,  and,  moreover,  found  that  I 
could,  then  and  there  learning  my  first  stage 
trick. 

I  did  tell  him,  however,  of  my  embarrassment 
on  my  first  night  in  the  sleeper,  and  of  my  kneel 
ing  down  in  the  aisle  to  say  my  prayers  with 
the  curtains  drawn  so  well  over  me  that  the 
conductor  stumbled  across  my  figure.  The  old 
man  was  much  alarmed  and  thought  I  had 
fainted,  and  I  was  so  shy  about  confessing  what 
I  was  really  doing  that  I  made  believe  I  had 
swooned  away. 

"Made  believe!"  echoed  Aaron.  "That's 
what  your  life  is  composed  of — all  of  you  'mak 
ing  believe,'  like  little  children.  And  do  you 
still  say  your  prayers  ?"  he  added,  suddenly. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  I  snapped,  ashamed  to  be 
ashamed. 

But  Aaron's  eyes  softened;  he  reached  over 
and  |,aid  one  of  his  warm  hands  on  my  chilly 
one.  "Dearest,"  he  breathed. 

It  was  rather  sweet,  but  I  pushed  back  my 
chair  to  go,  and  Aaron  crushed  out  his  cigarette 
light  in  the  tray  and  beckoned  for  the  check. 
I  put  on  my  gloves  leisurely. 

n 


THE    ACTRESS 

"You  needn't  think  I'm  through,"  I  said. 

"What,   more   supper?" 

"No,  more  story.  Gracious,  Aaron, another!" 
as  he  opened  his  bill  purse.  "You  never  seem 
to  have  anything  but  hundred-dollar  bills;  he'll 
be  ages  getting  that  changed." 

"Go  on,"  said  Aaron,  quietly,  "but  my  turn 
next." 

"Well,  it's  just  this.  All  through  my  year 
at  the  school  of  acting  my  love  and  veneration 
for  the  stage  increased.  If  that  school  didn't 
do  me  any  other  good,  it  gave  me  a  respect  for 
my  calling  which  those  first  miserable  years  of 
travel  in  cheap  companies  could  not  dissipate. 
There  wasn't  much  veneration  in  those  'troupes,' 
and  very  little  artistic  endeavor,  and  I  grew 
wise  quickly.  Why,  the  women  used  to  drive 
me  into  corners  to  tell  me  vicious  stories — 

"Don't,"  broke  in  Aaron,  white  about  the 
mouth. 

"I  sha'n't,"  I  hurried.  "It  didn't  make  any 
difference,  anyway.  I  had  never  cherished  false 
illusions,  and  later  on,  when  I  got  into  better 
companies,  I  found  conditions  even  happier 
than  I  had  imagined.  They  were  the  dis 
couraged  whom  I  went  among  at  first,  and  in 
most  instances  men  and  women  who  had  gone 

12 


THE    ACTRESS 

upon  the  stage  without  being  particularly  fitted 
for  it,  and  without  any  call."  Aaron  wriggled 

*  OO 

here.  "I  will  say  it,  though  it  makes  you  mad; 
there's  just  as  much  a  call  to  the  stage  as  there 
is  to  the  ministry,  so,  Mr.  Aaron,  I  repeat, 
without  any  call  beyond  a  desire  to  parade  one's 
self  and  earn  a  living  easily." 

"  I  wonder  if  they  found  it  easy  ?"  commented 
Aaron. 

"No,  it  was  hard,  hard.  But  they  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  grind,  and  while  they  all  re 
viled  their  work,  which  made  me  heartsick,  I 
doubt  if  any  one  of  them  would  have  abandoned 
it.  This  acting  game  is  so  big  that  it  saps  us 
up  and  we  become  a  part  of  it.  Oh,  I  under 
stand  how  it  is;  I  really  feel  an  integral  part  of 
the  theatre  now.  If  I  married  you  I'd  leave 
my  right  arm  behind.  You'd  have  a  maimed 
lady  to  support." 

The  change  came,  and  after  putting  on  our 
things  we  walked  up  toward  my  hotel.  Aaron 
was  very  quiet,  so  I  knew  he  had  something  to 
say  later  on.  The  air  was  cool  under  the  early 
April  sky,  the  big  lights  of  Long  Acre  had  given 
place  to  a  late  moon  which  looked  a  little  old- 
fashioned  after  the  glowing  advertisements  in 
rainbow  colors.  I  slipped  my  arm  through 

13 


THE    ACTRESS 

Aaron's.  It  would  be  so  pleasant  to  go  on 
supping  with  him  and  part  at  my  hotel  door! 
I  would  not  ask  for  any  other  companion  at 
any  time.  Why  could  not  men  be  reasonable  ? 
But  Aaron  was  silently  arguing  in  a  different 
strain,  and  at  the  corner  of  Forty-seventh  Street 
he  stopped.  He  never  could  talk  and  walk 
both. 

"What  you  don't  take  into  consideration," 
he  began,  "is  that  love  has  a  place  all  to  itself; 
and  since  it  rules  the  world,  I  think  I  am  not 
crazy  when  I  say  it  should  be  given  first  place. 
You  can't  any  more  compare  acting  with  love 
than  you  can  cheese  with  a  rocking-chair." 

This  wasn't  very  romantic,  but  Aaron  was 
pleased  with  the  figure  and  went  on,  breezily: 

"You'll  learn  it  some  day.  It's  a  wonder 
you  haven't  before;  but  you're  a  dear,  anaemic 
little  thing,  with  small  strength  for  other  in 
terests  than  this  great  one  of  yours.  If  your 
talent  had  run  along  the  lines  of  leading  busi 
ness,  if  your  sense  of  humor  had  not  preserved 
you  from  such  a  fate  and  made  a  character  wom 
an  of  you  instead,  you  would  probably  have 
been  pestered  by  a  good  many  men.  The  men, 
I  mean,  who  see  plays  and  move  about  suffi 
ciently  in  the  'artistic'  world,  as  I  suppose  you'd 


THE    ACTRESS 

call  it,  to  meet  women  of  the  stage.  Some  of 
them  would  have  made  the  right  kind  of  love 
to  you  and  some  wouldn't — don't  fight  me,  I'm 
wise,  too — but  I  don't  think  any  of  them  could 
care  more  than  I  have  cared  from  the  first  day 
when  that  amiable  throat  specialist  introduced 
us  in  his  office.  He  had  no  right  to,  of  course, 
but  bless  him." 

He  paused. 

"You've  lost  your  point,"  I  said,  beginning 
to  move  on. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  he  protested,  stopping  me 
again.  "There  isn't  any  beginning  or  any  end 
to  my  point.  It's  just  this:  I  want  you  for  my 
wife,  and  I'm  going  to  have  you,  and  I'm  going 
to  wait  for  you  every  night,  though  the  Lord 
knows  I  feel  an  ass  hanging  around  a  stage- 
door,  and  I'm  going  to  make  love  to  you  till 
you  see  things  right  and  marry  me.  You're 
just  so  saturated  with  'pretends' — children's 
'pretends' — that  you  can't  get  a  proper  view 
point." 

If  there's  anything  that  makes  me  angry  it's 
to  have  some  one  claim  that  the  stage  illusion 
affects  our  daily  lives,  that  we  are  always  "  make- 
believers."  So  I  said  to  him  at  the  corner  of 
Forty-seventh  Street:  "All  right.  I  like  to  see 

'5 


THE    ACTRESS 

you,  I  always  like  to  be  with  you,  but  I  say  to 
you  solemnly  that  the  first  opportunity  that 
presents  itself  for  me  to  leave  New  York  I  shall 
accept.  You  are  ruining  your  life  by  this  fool 
ish  pursuit,  and  I'm  not  sure  but  that  you  would 
ruin  mine  if  you  had  your  way." 

Aaron  and  I  walked  on  to  the  door  of  the 
hotel  and  parted  in  perfect  silence.  I  hadn't 
the  remotest  idea  what  he  was  thinking  of,  and 
it  was  simply  maddening. 


II 


IT  is  understood  in  the  office — the  hotel  office 
—that  I  am  never  to  be  rung  up  on  the  tele 
phone  till  the  hour  I  am  to  be  called.  I  had  a 
hard  time  beating  this  into  them,  but  they  are 
fairly  well  trained  now.  Once  upon  a  time, 
when  I  was  younger,  I  good-naturedly  dashed 
out  of  bed  to  talk  airy  nothings  to  some  girl 
who  had  gone  to  sleep  at  ten  and  was  ready  for 
the  day  at  eight.  Now  when  I  am  aroused  by 
accident  I  allow  myself  to  talk  in  my  vocal 
chords,  and  don't  send  my  voice  curving  like 
a  button-hook  out  over  the  roof  of  my  mouth 
(stage  trick),  and  the  girl  at  the  other  end  says, 
"Heavens,  have  I  waked  you  up!"  feeling  very 
guilty,  as  she  should. 

With  all  the  stuff  in  the  papers  and  magazines 
now  about  the  busy  life  of  the  actress,  the  gen 
eral  public  have  grown  more  conscious  than 
they  were  a  few  years  ago  as  to  the  habits  of 
"my  ain  people."  Still  they  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it  yet,  and  they  never  will,  and  they 


THE    ACTRESS 

never  should.  I  wouldn't  for  the  world  shake 
their  belief,  for  instance,  in  the  idea  that  a  piece 
which  is  an  established  success  has  anything 
but  continual  rehearsals — they  serve  too  ex 
cellently  as  an  excuse  for  avoiding  the  things 
one  doesn't  want  to  do. 

When  a  rehearsal  call  does  come,  however — 
and  it  generally  follows  a  sudden  visitation  of 
the  head  manager,  who  meanly  stands  in  the 
gallery  and  watches  us  tear  through  our  lines- 
it  always  falls  on  the  day  of  a  particularly  nice 
lunch  at  Sherry's,  and  telegrams  have  to  be  sent 
in  all  directions.  Then  the  others  of  the  luncheon 
convene,  and  Alphonse  scoops  up  my  cover,  while 
all  the  nice  writing-girls  who  are  present  talk  of 
our  dog's  life,  and  put  it  in  their  column.  The 
curious  thing;  about  it  is,  no  matter  the  degree 

O  *  O 

of  a  player,  she  almost  never  stays  away  from 
a  rehearsal.  She  may  come  in  late  with  hack 
neyed  tales  of  "coal -wagon  on  the  track"  or 
"wasn't  called,"  but  she  comes,  and  while  she 
complains  bitterly  of  missing  her  luncheon,  the 
sense  of  discipline,  which  is  the  strongest  un 
admitted  note  in  a  theatre,  is  too  powerful  for 
her  to  withstand. 

Once,  just  once,  the  year  I  first  "arrived" 
as  a  Broadway  favorite,  I  stayed  away  from  a 

18 


THE    ACTRESS 

rehearsal,  sent  a  telegram  that  I  was  ill,  and 
had  lunch  at  Lattard's,  down  in  the  city.  It 
was  miles  from  the  theatre,  but  I  gobbled  my 
food  with  my  head  dropped  between  my  shoul 
ders  as  though  I  expected  to  be  grasped  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck  momentarily.  The  result  was 
I  had  an  attack  of  acute  indigestion,  and  played 
that  night,  as  the  box-office  speedily  sent  to  the 
papers,  "with  the  utmost  heroism,  although  ex 
cessively  ill  all  day."  It's  over  now,  and  my 
spirit  is  broken,  but  I  never  look  a  scallop  en 
brochette  in  the  face  without  gazing  apprehen 
sively  over  my  shoulder  for  the  management. 

The  things  that  take  an  actress's  time  are  the 
going  to  bed  and  the  getting  up.  My  dear  old 
relative  in  the  West  sent  me  a  neat  plan  for 
living  when  I  accepted  my  first  engagement, 
and  it  read  very  well.  Her  argument  was  that 
I  could  very  easily  be  in  bed  and  asleep  by 
eleven-thirty,  since  I  left  the  theatre  by  eleven, 
and  I  could  then  be  up  by  eight,  ready  for  a 
long,  happy  day  darning  stockings  and  improv 
ing  my  mind.  In  that  way,  she  concluded,  I 
could  live  to  be  a  hundred. 

This  threat  alone  was  sufficient  to  drive  me 
to  late  hours.  But,  jesting  apart,  suppose,  we'll 
say  a  broker — Aaron  Adams  is  one,  and  I  see 

19 


THE    ACTRESS 

him  oftenest — suppose  a  broker  after  an  ex 
citing  day  on  the  floor,  with  the  blood  boiling 
in  his  brain  and  his  eyes  full  of  figures — suppose 
he  were  to  go  to  his  apartment  at  six,  and  say, 
"I  will  now  have  two  soft-boiled  eggs  and  be 
asleep  by  seven,  so  that  by  four  I  can  be  up,  cut 
down  a  large  tree,  and  be  ready  for  five-o'clock 
breakfast."  Can  you  see  a  broker  doing  that  ? 

At  eleven  the  actor's  work  is  over,  and  he  is 
nervously  but  not  physically  tired.  The  blood 
is  in  his  head  and  he  is  hungry,  for  his  dinner 
has  been  light  and  early.  Like  a  true  laboring 
man,  he  sits  among  his  friends  and  chats  awhile, 
then  goes  home,  reads  a  bit,  and  prepares  for 
sleep.  He  need  not  be  supping  in  a  fashionable 
restaurant  —  the  happiest  men  and  women  I 
know  are  those  who  fly  to  their  little  flats,  and 
tell  me  the  next  night  how  good  was  the  cold 
beef  of  yesterday's  dinner. 

It  need  not  be  even  New  York,  although  only 
real  vagabonds  like  myself  can  assert  this;  but 
I  know  of  at  least  two  great  stars  who  look  upon 
their  spring  tour  through  New  York  State  and 
New  England  as  real  playtime.  "Have  you 
found  where  the  lunch-wagon  is  ?"  one  of  them 
used  to  say  to  me  during  her  intense  scene. 
And  when  the  play  was  over  we  would  go  across 

20 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  village  green,  with  the  glimmering  light  of 
the  White  House  wagon  as  a  beacon,  and  on 
high  stools,  with  our  feet  tucked  up  on  the 
rounds,  devour  onions  with  hot  milk  and  talk 
"shop." 

Small  towns  were  not  known  to  us  by  their 
Carnegie  libraries  and  statues  in  the  square. 
"Oh,  that  is  where  they  make  such  good  West 
ern  sandwiches,"  quotes  the  little  star,  as  she 
looks  over  her  route;  or,  "Goodness,  that  place 
again!  There  were  black  beetles  in  the  hotel!" 
My  dear,  simple  people,  whatever  their  veneer 
in  the  cities,  they  are  children  on  the  road. 

Having  justified  myself  by  supping  late  with 
Aaron,  I  must  still  account  for  my  eleven  o'clock 
morning  call,  for  there  is  something  slothful  in 
sleeping  from  one  till  eleven,  if  one  slept  from 
then,  but  one  does  not,  at  least  not  if  one  is  a 
character  woman.  I  have  often  thought  of  my 
good  old  first  days  on  the  stage,  when,  because 
my  nose  seemed  to  be  in  the  right  place  and 
the  corners  of  my  mouth  turned  up,  I  was  cast 
for  a  pretty,  fluffy  ingenue,  and  I  was  able  to 
go  to  bed  with  only  a  hurried  laving  of  my  face 
and  a  slap  of  cold  cream. 

Now,  before  I  leave  the  theatre,  there  is  a 
good  twenty  minutes  of  wig-removing,  wrinkle- 

21 


THE    ACTRESS 

removing,  eyebrow- removing,  and  general  re 
modelling  of  my  figure.  When  I  get  home  I 
pull  off  my  gloves,  take  off  my  blouse,  and  look 
ruefully  at  the  traces  of  stain  on  my  arm,  which 
are  to  make  them  toil-worn,  and  the  shadows 
of  blue  grease-paint  rubbed  in  to  hollow  my 
neck  that  the  cold  cream  and  colder  water  of 
the  theatre  have  not  entirely  removed.  My  hair 
all  around  the  edges  is  silver-white,  for  strands 
were  drawn  up  over  my  gray  wig  and  then  pow 
dered,  and  after  that  silvered  so  as  to  give  the 
appearance  of  real  gray  hair  growing  from  the 
roots.  Under  my  big  hat  and  draped  veil 
this  did  not  show  at  supper,  but  now  the  hair 
must  be  carefully  separated  from  the  untouched 
brown  and  brushed  vigorously.  The  silver 
powder  is  ruinous  to  hair  and  everything  it 
touches,  and  I  have  to  spread  a  paper  on  my 
toilet-table  over  which  I  lean.  After  that  those 
discolored  strands  must  be  washed,  and  since 
this  nightly  performance  is  too  drying,  an  oil 
is  rubbed  into  the  scalp. 

Then  comes  a  careful  tubbing,  with  the  use  of 
pumice  on  the  arms  to  remove  the  toil-worn 
stains.  It  reddens  the  skin,  and  a  balm  is  ap 
plied,  while  a  thicker  cream  than  the  one  used 
to  remove  make-up  is  massaged  into  the  skin 

22 


THE    ACTRESS 

of  the  face;  for  all  through  the  evening  that 
poor  visage  has  been  drawn  up  into  a  network 
of  expressive  lines,  and  when  one  is  tired  they 
are  apt  to  remain.  Last  of  all,  in  a  warm  wrap 
per,  with  the  windows  open,  come  a  few  calis 
thenics  just  to  straighten  the  shoulders  that  have 
been  bent  for  three  hours. 

These  antics  over,  on  the  evening  of  April 
3d — the  morning  of  April  4th,  rather — Rhoda 
Miller  went  to  bed.  She  was  very,  very  tired, 
but  the  events  of  the  evening  floated  through 
her  mind.  She  had  lost  that  laugh  in  the  second 
act  because  she  had  not  waited;  yes,  the  au 
dience  was  slow  to  get  the  points — how  strong 
Aaron's  face  was! — they  might  put  a  mattress 
back  of  the  window — she  really  wouldn't  need 
a  man  to  catch  her— but  that  was  giving  in  to 
Aaron — well,  why  not — on  the  other  hand, 
why — had  Aaron  ever  given  in  to  her  ? — what  a 
heavy  perfume! — that  was  the  oil  for  the  hair — 
would  Aaron  hate  that,  too  ? — it  didn't  really 
matter — it  was  always  gone  by  morning — be 
sides,  this  Aaron  business  must  be  stopped— 
why  hadn't  he  replied  to  her  last  words  ? — what 
were  her  words?  "The  first  opportunity- 
leave  New  York — shall  accept" — and  quite 
right,  too — quite— 

23 


THE    ACTRESS 

The  bell  of  the  telephone  rang  frantically, 
and  I  sat  up  in  my  bed  digging  for  my  watch 
belligerently.  True  enough,  it  was  only  ten, 
but  the  bell  continued  to  ring,  and  to  stop  the 
tattoo  it  was  beating  on  my  nerves  I  flew  to  the 
call. 

"Who's  there?"  I  croaked. 

"Miss  Miller,  I  can't  help  it,"  came  the  hur 
ried  voice  of  the  girl  at  the  switchboard  down 
stairs.  "It's  a  theatrical  manager;  he's  on  the 
wire  now— 

"Halloo,  halloo,  halloo!"  broke  in  a  gruff 
voice.  "  I'll  explain  to  Miss  Miller— Miss  Mil 
ler  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  removing  the  croak  from 
my  voice  with  great  dexterity.  "Who  is  this  ?" 

'This  is  the  office  of  Junius  Cutting.  Mr. 
Cutting  wants  to  see  you  this  morning,  but  right 
away,  please." 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  wash  my  face." 

The  man  laughed,  and  I  heard  him  repeat 
my  scintillation,  and  then,  after  a  pause,  "Mr. 
Cutting  says  to  have  some  breakfast,  too,  but 
don't  stop  to  read  The  Telegraph." 

"All  right,  I'll  be  down,"  I  answered. 

There  was  a  grunt  of  good-bye  from  both  of 
us,  and  I  dashed  in  and  out  of  my  cold  tub,  then 

24 


THE    ACTRESS 

ordered  up  my  breakfast,  with  a  comb  in  one 
hand  and  receiver  in  the  other,  and  dressed  be 
tween  mouthfuls.  The  gentle  April  sun  was 
stealing  through  the  open  windows,  its  color 
filling  me  with  a  warmth  that  its  rays  would  not 
substantiate.  Or  was  it  the  rosy  glow  of  suc 
cess  that  set  my  blood  bounding  ? 

After  all,  how  nice  it  was  to  be  a  character 
woman!  A  leading  lady  could  never  have  jest 
ed  over  the  telephone  with  the  firm  of  Junius 
Cutting;  it  would  have  been  undignified.  Even 
a  few  years  ago,  in  my  humble  capacity  as  an 
interpreter  of  "character  bits,"  I  would  have 
quaked  out  nothing  more  humorous  than  "Yes, 
sir,  I'll  be  down."  But  that  was  before  chance 
had  thrust  me  into  a  role  which  read  badly, 
hence  was  given  to  me,  and  played  well — thanks 
to  its  fitting  my  humble  limitations  —  a  role 
that  had  caught  the  fancy  of  jaded  New 
York  and  quadrupled  my  salary  within  a 
year. 

I  would  like  to  believe  that  these  opportunities 
come  to  every  actress;  they  do  to  many,  and  some 
let  them  slip  by.  But  they  don't  to  all,  and  as  I 
drank  my  cup  of  coffee  and  nibbled  at  the  toast, 
I  thanked  the  maker  of  good  parts  that  my  first 
years  when  I  was  so  miserably  learning  were  so 

25 


THE    ACTRESS 

beautifully  followed  by  these  last  three  happy 
ones. 

I  wore  my  second-best  furs  to  go  to  the  office, 
and  paid  small  attention  to  my  hair.  I  took  a 
fierce  delight  in  this,  for  it  would  necessitate 
years  of  such  carelessness  of  detail  to  make  up 
for  the  weary  hours  I  primped  in  other  days 
before  I  dared  present  myself,  tremblingly,  be 
fore  the  managers.  Oh,  that  sad  furbishing  up 
of  old  costumes  to  make  myself  smart  for  the 
ogres!  The  close  inspection  of  the  shops  to 
find  a  fresh  veil  that  was  not  too  expensive, 
gloves  that  looked  well  but  cost  little,  bargain 
shoes  that  would  peep  out  attractively  from 
under  well-brushed  but  well-worn  skirts!  As 
long  as  such  memories  remain  in  one's  mind  a 
woman  runs  small  chance  of  that  enveloping 
disease — "The  big  head." 

Once  in  the  office  comparisons  again  thrust 
themselves  upon  me.  I  slipped  in  quietly,  for 
already  the  outer  room  was  filled  with  actors 
and  actresses,  singers,  dancers,  and  eager  young 
playwrights.  There  were  not  chairs  for  all, 
and  some  were  leaning  against  the  walls,  drap 
ing  the  steam-heater,  or  sitting  on  the  window- 
sill.  The  girls  looked  anxious,  and  tried  to 
hide  it — as  I  had  often  done;  the  men  read 

26 


THE    ACTRESS 

papers  and  assumed  a  jauntiness  which  they 
did  not  feel.  The  office  boy,  recognizing  me, 
said  he  would  take  in  my  card;  and,  seeing  that 
this  must  be  the  proper  thing  to  do,  a  young 
woman  offered  hers  also,  but  he  passed  it  by 
scornfully. 

I  blushed  apologetically.  "I  have  an  ap 
pointment,"  I  explained.  There  was  a  vainglo- 
riousness  about  the  word  appointment,  however, 
which  made  me  even  more  unhappy.  Once  I 
was  that  girl  and  would  devour  with  eyes  of 
hate  those  others  who  had  appointments.  Of 
course  I  could  not  tell  her  that,  or  assure  her 
that  some  day  she  would  probably  have  such 
things,  too,  and  pass  in  ahead  of  me — ahead  of 
all  of  us  who  were  just  then  in  demand. 

The  door  of  the  manager's  office  opened  and 
a  scared  young  man  shot  out.  As  he  had  gone 
into  the  sanctum  but  a  moment  previous,  while 
I  was  entering  the  outer  room,  he  could  not 
have  made  any  great  headway  before  he  was 
cut  short  by  the  decisive  rolling  back  of  the 
managerial  chair  which  ends  all  interviews.  Yet 
there  was  something  in  his  face  which  betokened 
profound  relief,  and  a  thankfulness  that  he  had 
escaped  not  quite  devoured  by  the  one  keen, 
measuring  glance  of  Junius  Cutting. 

27 


THE    ACTRESS 

The  manager  looked  out  of  his  door,  and 
there  was  a  movement  among  those  waiting. 
The  actress  who  was  evidently  "next"  ad 
vanced  toward  him,  but  he  looked  through  her 
with  unseeing  eyes. 

"Will  you  come  in,  Miss  Miller,"  he  called, 
and,  uttering  an  apology  for  any  one  in  the 
room  who  cared  to  accept  it,  I  made  my 
exit. 

In  the  revolving-chair  the  ogre  again  became 
a  genial,  smiling  man.  On  the  top  of  his  desk 
was  a  roll  of  leather-framed  photographs — one 
of  his  wife,  one  of  the  baby  in  overalls,  and 
one  without  them;  and  there  was  still  another 
of  himself  at  his  farm  surrounded  by  a  group 
of  friends,  for  he  was  a  prince  of  hosts,  a  de 
voted  husband,  and  as  soft-hearted  a  father  as 
was  ever  bullied  by  a  small  son. 

"Got  a  two  weeks'  clause  with  your  people  ?" 
he  began,  briskly. 

By  this  question  Mr.  Cutting  meant  had  I 
signed  a  contract  with  my  present  management 
which  permitted  me  to  give  them,  or  inversely, 
two  weeks'  notice  that  I  desired  to  leave  the 
cast.  It  is  a  customary  clause  of  all  theatrical 
contracts,  except  those  of  a  few  poor  manage 
ments  who  reserve  that  blessed  privilege  for 

28 


THE    ACTRESS 

themselves  alone.  Since  there  is  no  equity  in 
such  an  arrangement,  however,  any  actor  could 
successfully  take  his  case  to  court,  yet  this  he 
seldom  does  for  fear  of  prejudicing  other  man 
agers  against  him  —  which  is  truly  pitiful  and 
pitifully  true. 

One's  first  contract  seems  to  be  a  document 
of  tremendous  importance;  but,  after  all,  it  is 
the  form  that  every  member  of  the  company 
must  sign,  and  as  time  goes  on  it  loses  in  our 
esteem.  As  we  climb  a  little  higher  up  the 
ladder,  clauses  are  written  in  for  us  which  adds 
to  our  importance  and  pleases  our  vanity.  Then 
comes  a  period — before  we  arrive  at  starship, 
when  a  special  contract  is  made  out  with  red 
seals  and  lawyers  all  over  the  place — a  delight 
ful  period  of  no  contracts  at  all;  we  shake  hands 
with  the  management  when  we  go  in  and  when 
we  go  out,  and  every  one  is  on  his  honor  to  be 
have  himself  and  to  play  fair.  I  had  arrived 
at  the  stage  of  no  contract,  and  told  Mr.  Cut 
ting  so. 

"Humph!"  said  Cutting,  thinking  better  and 
better  of  me,  but  concealing  it.  "Still,  I'm 
good  friends  with  the  Fullers,  and  I  suppose 
they'd  let  you  off." 

"I'm  very  comfortable  where  I  am,"  I  re- 
29 


THE    ACTRESS 

plied,  dying  to  know  what  was  up,  but  also  con 
cealing  it. 

Junius  bit  off  the  end  of  a  cigar.  "  Don't  sup 
pose  a  big  part  in  London  would  attract  you, 
then  ?" 

A  big  part  in  London!  The  red  roses  in  the 
carpet  came  up  before  my  distorted  vision  and 
wreathed  themselves  around  the  head  of  Junius. 
His  wife  waved  dizzily  from  her  frame.  I 
wanted  to  clutch  my  chair  for  fear  I'd  fall  off 
of  it  the  next  time  I  whirled  about  the  room, 
but  I  forbade  myself  to  express  the  smallest 
emotion.  A  big  part  in  London!  It  was  the 
zenith  of  my  ambition,  and  yet  it  was  not  the 
accomplishment  of  my  desire  that  was  whirling 
around  in  my  mind  with  the  red-carpet  roses 
and  the  manager's  wife,  but  my  insistent  phrase 
of  the  night  before,  "The  first  opportunity 
that  presents  itself  for  me  to  leave  New  York 
I  shall  accept."  It  had  come — with  no  plan 
ning  of  mine,  affairs  had  shaped  themselves  to 
the  right  end.  It  must  be  the  right  end  or  it 
would  not  have  come,  I  argued,  inwardly.  Of 
course  I  was  glad,  very  glad.  All  this  happened 
in  an  instant,  I  suppose,  and  I  found  myself 
saying  to  Mr.  Cutting: 

"I  like  to  play  a  big  part  anywhere,  and  I'm 
3° 


THE    ACTRESS 

pleased  that  you  want  me;  still,  this  piece  I'm 
in  is  apt  to  run  on  all  summer,  and  I  suppose 
that  the  other  would  be  a  risk.  May  I  ask 
what  your  play  is  ?" 

"A  new  one  of  Hallam's.  The  scenes  are 
laid  in  America;  some  of  the  characters  English, 
but  most  of  them  Western,  so  we  want  to  get 
good  types.  Your  part  is  the  best  of  all,  an  ugly 
old  half-breed,  perfectly  hideous  creature — a  de 
lightful  thing  to  play.  Any  one  could  make  a 
hit  in  it."  This  last  he  added  absently,  which 
showed  that  the  fight  was  on. 

"I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Fuller  will  release  me," 
I  said,  "especially  if  you  make  it  a  point  and 
I  am  bettering  myself  in  every  way."  Every 
way  was  slightly  emphasized. 

"You  will  undoubtedly  better  yourself,"  re 
sponded  Mr.  Cutting;  "it's  the  chance  of  a 
lifetime.  Of  course,  as  regards  salary—  '  Ju- 
nius  hesitated. 

"Oh  yes,  salary,"  I  echoed,  as  though  it  were 
a  new  thought. 

"Well,  salaries  are  not  the  same  in  London 
as  in  New  York,  but  you  can  live  more  cheaply, 
and  have  a  nice  summer,  too." 

"Perhaps." 

"It's  a    risk,   but  then  everything's  a   risk. 

31 


THE    ACTRESS 

Your  play  might  fall  as  flat  as  a  burst  balloon 
on  the  first  hot  day."  And  there  he  was 
right. 

"It  won't  for  two  months,  anyway,"  I  per 
sisted.  "I  think  Mr.  Fuller  would  guarantee 
me  that." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  try  him,"  chuckled  Mr. 
Cutting. 

"Shall  I?"  I  dared. 

"Do  as  you  please.  I  can't  guarantee  any 
thing  but  your  passage  there  and  back,  two 
weeks'  notice,  and  a  fair  salary — a  big  one  for 
London." 

"I  want  just  what  I'm  getting  now,  and  you 
can  ask  Mr.  Fuller  what  it  is — one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  weekly." 

I  didn't  get  any  further,  for  Junius  revolved 
in  his  chair  and  laughed. 

"Gracious,  girl,  that's  a  prince's  ransom  in 
London!" 

"Well,  it's  mine,  too;  and,  more  than  that,  I 
want  six  weeks'  guarantee.  It's  only  fair — 

But  the  manager  cut  me  short  again,  and  for 
fifteen  minutes  by  polite  negation  each  assured 
the  other  how  indifferent  he  was  to  the  engage 
ment.  It  finally  ended  in  my  conceding  a  point, 
as  I  had  intended  to  do,  and  in  his  conceding  a 

32 


THE    ACTRESS 

point,  as  he  had  intended  to  do,  for  I  was  to 
receive  the  same  salary,  but  no  guarantee  be 
yond  the  usual  two  weeks'  notice. 

It  really  was  an  excellent  summer's  engage 
ment,  and  yet  somehow,  as  I  passed  through 
the  outer  room  after  shaking  hands  cordially 
with  Junius  Cutting,  I  was  feeling  rather  sorry 
for  myself,  sorrier  even  for  myself  than  for  all 
those  waiting  ones  who  were  not  driven  from 
their  dear  country  through  the  persistent  at 
tentions  of  Aaron  Adams.  With  this  grievance 

O 

in  my  mind,  as  soon  as  I  had  talked— and  wept 
—a  little  in  Mr.  Fuller's  office,  and  had  finally 
been  honorably  released,  I  went  straight  to  the 
telephone  to  tell  that  man  what  he  had  forced 
me  into. 

I  didn't  tell  him,  however.  The  element  of 
suspense  is  so  interesting,  and,  besides,  I  wanted 
to  be  on  hand  to  see  how  he'd  "take  it."  So  I 
just  said  that  I  wished  to  see  him. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  that,"  was  the  response; 
"you  don't  often  confess  as  much.  I  hope  you 
are  going  to  say  you're  sorry  for  your  outra 
geous  behavior  of  last  night." 

"I'm  not,"  I  called  back,  looking  coquettish 
over  the  'phone,  yet  realizing  how  absurd  I  must 
be  to  those  peering  through  the  glass  of  the 

33 


THE    ACTRESS 

booth.  "But  I'll  give  you  luncheon,  if  that 
will  help  matters." 

By  giving  Aaron  luncheon  it  meant  that  I 
would  pick  out  a  place  and  he  would  pay  the 
bill.  As  a  rule,  I  don't  lunch  at  all,  but  have  a 
hearty  breakfast  at  twelve  and  my  early  dinner 
at  about  five-thirty.  So,  in  a  way,  luncheon  was 
a  mark  of  favor;  besides,  I  was  hungry. 

"Luncheon,  eh  ?"  came  back  in  rather  pleased 
metallics.  "Then  you  were  up  early!  Did  you 
get  the  worm  ?" 

"Rather,"  I  answered,  mindful  of  Cutting. 

"Did  he  squirm?" 

"Oh,  did  he!" 

"Poor  devil!"  cried  Aaron,  uncomprehend 
ing  as  yet,  and  a  trifle  jealous.  "Now  you'll  use 
him  as  bait  for  me,  I  suppose,  and  dangle  him 
before  me." 

"Please  don't;  I'm  so  hungry.  I  don't  mean 
bait  makes  me  so— but  where  can  we  go  ?" 

"Why  don't  you  come  down-town.  I'll  meet 
you  at  the  Subway,  and  we  can  have  a  meal  in 
peace  without  masticating  to  music." 

We  had  done  this  before,  so  arrangements 
were  easily  completed.  Indeed,  I  was  flying 
out  of  the  booth  when  the  girl  at  the  switch 
board  cried  out,  "He's  calling  you  again,  miss," 

34 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  that  brought  me  back,  she  and  I  both  with 
the  receivers  to  our  ears. 

"Yes,  I'm  here— what?" 

"Oh,  just  by-the-way — will  you  be  my  wife  ?" 

"Aaron,  how  can  you  ?  The  girl  is  listen- 
ing." 

"Well,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"You  don't  have  to  face  her." 

"Is  she  so  dreadful?" 

"Ssh!" 

"But  will  you?" 

"No." 

"All  right,  come  on  down,  anyway,  and  I'll 
poison  the  soup." 

"I  don't  want  soup." 

"Great  Scott!  How  British  in  our  humor 
to-day!" 

"British — hah!  You  just  wait — wait."  And 
I  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"Double  charge,  please,"  said  the  telephone 
girl,  haughtily  and  very  pink  in  the  face.  I 
rushed  on  to  the  station. 

Somehow  I  didn't  find  it  easy  to  tell  him  on 
the  way  to  the  restaurant.  I  kept  looking  up 
from  under  the  wide  brim  of  my  second-best 
hat,  and  thinking  how  well  he  fitted  in  with  the 
big  buildings  and  the  narrow,  busy  streets.  He 

35 


THE    ACTRESS 

swung  along  with  an  air  of  proprietorship  which 
rather  extended  itself  to  me.  But  I  didn't  mind, 
for  my  freedom  was  in  sight.  However,  it  was 
not  until  the  little  tournedos  were  brought  on 
that  I  found  an  opportunity.  It  wasn't  much 
of  an  opportunity,  but  I  made  it  so. 

"This  is  good  beef,"  said  Aaron,  plastering 
his  with  Bearnaise  sauce. 

"Our  best  beef  goes  to  England,  doesn't  it?" 
I  began,  very  artfully,  and  disgusted  to  find  my 
heart  beating.  The  result  was  not  everything 
I  could  wish. 

"It  certainly  does  not,"  he  responded,  vigor 
ously.  'The  best  of  no  American  product  goes 
out  of  America.  It  doesn't  need  to." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,"  I  said, 
feebly  fishing  for  another  opening. 

"Oh,  well,  don't  take  it  to  heart,  dear;  the 
beef  doesn't  mind." 

"But  I  do,"  I  almost  tearfully  insisted. 

Aaron  put  down  his  knife  and  paused,  eying 
me  tenderly  but  anxiously.  He  knew  my  habits 
perfectly,  and  yet—  "You  haven't  had  a  cock 
tail,  have  you,  Rhoda  ?" 

This  was  most  trying. 

"You  know  I  never  drink  anything  but  ale, 
and  that  at  night.  How  can  you  be  so  stupid!" 

36 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Stupid  ?"  echoed  the  astonished  Aaron. 

"Yes,  stupid!"  I  snipped  out.  "You  ought 
to  see  that  I'm  in  trouble." 

'Trouble!"  he  cried,  all  on  my  side  at  once. 

"No,  not  that  exactly,"  I  stammered.  Heav 
ens,  to  call  my  liberation  trouble!  "But  it's 
something  that  is  going  to  make  a  great  change 
in  my  affairs,  however,  and— 

"Rhoda  Miller,"  interrupted  Aaron,  man  of 
business  to  the  fore,  "have  you  put  money  in 
that  Foreign  Beef  Trust  ?" 

I  put  my  hands  to  my  face  and  shook,  and 
my  companion  came  around  to  my  side  of  the 
table  and  took  them  down.  That's  the  nice 
part  of  Aaron's  French  restaurant — when  we 
go  for  late  lunch  no  one  is  there,  and  if  we  go 
into  the  last  room  the  waiter  closes  the  door; 
and  while  he  never  does  anything  so  outrageous 
as  to  knock,  he  hurls  himself  against  it  once 
or  twice  when  he  comes  in  with  the  tray.  We 
often  laughed  over  it,  and  since  this  particular 
broker  of  mine  is  an  old  patron,  I  accused  him 
once  of  having  given  Francois  more  reason  for 
so  hurling  himself  in  the  days  before  I  knew 
him.  And  at  this  he  only  laughed  again,  which 
proved  that  he  was  either  truthful  or  crafty, 
or  both.  Anyway,  he  pulled  down  my  hands 

37 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  managed  to  keep  hold  of  them  while  he 
dexterously  drew  up  a  chair. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?" 

"I'm  going  to  England,"  I  gulped,  forlornly. 

"For  a  vacation  ?     Good!" 

"No,  to  play;  to  stay  there  forever — at  least 
to  stay  until  you  forget  me.  It's  my  oppor 
tunity,  and  I — I've  seized  it." 

When  I  went  to  bed  that  night  I  remem 
bered  I  had  been  so  busy  with  the  lump  in  my 
throat  that  I  had  not  watched  particularly  how 
Aaron  had  "taken  it,"  and  it  was  annoying 
after  going  to  such  trouble  in  order  to  be  on 
the  spot  with  the  news.  I  recalled,  however, 
that  he  still  held  my  hands  and  looked  into  my 
face.  "Dear  little  love,"  he  had  said,  simply, 
"poor  little  love." 

Later  on,  after  what  I  can  conscientiously  call 
pulling  himself  together,  he  went  back  to  his 
tournedos.  "You  may  make  me  miserable," 
he  said,  as  he  renewed  his  attack  upon  it,  "but, 
thank  God,  you  can't  take  my  appetite  from 
me." 

Then  there  was  a  lot  of  talk  to  follow  which 
made  me  even  more  set,  and  by  the  time  he  had 
lighted  his  cigarette  he  had  just  one  more  "last 
alternative"  to  suggest. 

38 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Rhoda,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "if  you  are  real 
ly  going  out  of  your  own  country,  and  giving  up 
what  you  call  a  'pleasant  and  profitable  engage 
ment'  here  in  order  to  get  away  from  me,  I'll 
pledge  you  my  word  of  honor  that  you  can  stay 
on  in  New  York  unmolested.  I'll  be  within 
call,  as  you  know,  but  I  shall  never  see  you." 

This  was  making  things  very  difficult.  Visions 
of  dreary  evenings  rose  up  before  me,  of  lonely 
suppers  in  my  room  or  with  chance  acquaint 
ances,  and  all  the  time  right  within  reaching  dis 
tance  Aaron  Adams  and  the  pleasant  hour  of 
easy  talk  after  the  play.  Besides,  there  was 
London,  and  the  chance  of  playing  a  good  role 
in  that  Mecca  of  all  actors,  of  adding  to  my 
reputation,  of  being  admired — and  envied — of 
seeing  new  conditions  in  the  stage  life  to  which 
I  was  so  devoted.  My  questioner  saw  my  hesi 
tation,  and,  being  a  man  without  vanity,  attrib 
uted  none  of  it  to  himself. 

"You  have  answered  me,"  he  went  on;  "you 
want  to  go.  You've  seized  the  'opportunity' 
that  you  spoke  of  last  night,  because  it  suits 
your  convenience.  That's  your  excuse,  not  your 
reason.  You're  just  enjoying  one  of  your 
pretends;  but  let  me  tell  you,  little  girl,  don't 
imagine  you'll  be  married  to  your  art;  there's 

39 


THE    ACTRESS 

only  one  thing  a  woman  can  be  married  to,  and 
that's  a  man.  They're  not  synonymous,  my 
love  and  your  art,  and  don't  you  forget  it." 

For  once  I  had  no  reply;  I  could  only  look 
grieved;  and  Aaron,  quite  oblivious  to  it,  bundled 
me  up  in  my  second-best  wraps.  Francois  took 
the  flowers  out  of  the  vase,  which  always  man 
aged  to  be  there  before  we  arrived,  wiped  the 
stems,  and  handed  them  to  me.  The  cashier 
nodded  as  we  passed  by  her,  and  the  proprietor 
bowed  at  the  door. 

"I'm  going  to  put  you  in  a  hansom  and  let 
you  drive  up-town  to  have  some  air,"  said  Aaron, 
when  we  had  reached  the  pavement.  "I  must 
get  back  to  the  office." 

"I  shall  see  you  to-night?"  I  asked,  leaning 
out  of  the  cab. 

"Yes,  and  every  night  until— 

The  horse  started  up  suddenly,  and  Aaron's 
speech  was  never  finished. 

"After  all,"  I  thought,  as  I  lifted  Aaron's 
tulips  from  my  lap  and  inhaled  the  fresh  spring 
odor,  "I  shall  miss  him,  and  that's  no  pretend 
at  all." 


Ill 


TUNIUS  CUTTING  asked  me  not  to  make 
*J  known  my  engagement  until  he  was  ready 
to  publish  his  cast,  so  I  told  no  one  beyond 
Aaron  and  my  dresser— that  is,  not  outright.  I 
had  quite  a  struggle  with  my  conscience  before 
I  told  Frederica.  She  was  not  my  dresser,  but 
one  of  the  best  friends  a  girl  ever  had.  She 
cannot  act  much,  but  then  she  is  quite  pretty, 
and  always  wanted  to  go  to  London,  only  she 
never  could  save  up  enough  money.  Once 
she  saved  forty  dollars  and  sent  it  to  her  father 
to  invest,  but  before  the  money-order  reached 
him  she  had  wired  for  it.  She  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that  she  might  just  as  well  enjoy  her 
self  while  she  was  alive,  and  I  was,  in  a  way, 
responsible  for  this  decision  of  hers.  I  had 
been  the  entire  winter  before  saving  two  hun 
dred  dollars  over  and  above  what  I  would  need 
for  my  summer  expenses,  and  I  took  that  down 
to  a  Wall  Street  office  where  I  had  learned  they 
did  wonderful  things  with  money.  Frederica 
4  41 


THE    ACTRESS 

went  with  me,  and  she  heard  me  tell  the  man 
that  I  was  a  poor  girl,  and  that  unless  the  gold 
mine  was  a  very  good  one  I  didn't  want  him  to 
take  the  two  hundred.  He  said  it  was  one  of 
the  deepest  mines  in  the  world,  and  it  must 
have  been,  for  the  sum  I  put  into  it  has  never 
come  to  the  surface  yet. 

Still,  I  enjoy  my  papers  and  carry  them  every 
where.  Once  I  was  offered  a  penny  a  share — 
I  had  paid  five  dollars — but  I  took  them  out 
and  rustled  them  lovingly  and  decided  to  keep 
them  for  their  good  looks.  Frederica  was  very 
scornful  of  this  decision.  She  said  she  would 
rather  have  had  the  forty  cents  and  bought  a 
cake  of  French  soap,  but,  as  I  have  said,  she  is 
never  able  to  save  any  money,  and  no  one  should 
follow  her  advice.  It  was  my  custom  to  carry 
my  money  to  Aaron,  and  he  had  made  me  take 
out  a  large  endowment  policy  as  well,  so  as  to 
force  me  into  saving,  and  also  to  pay  weekly 
into  a  co-operative  bank  which  he  said  would 
keep  all  the  money  if  I  fell  behind.  And  though 
this  was  probably  not  the  truth,  I  would  fly 
down  and  pay  weeks  in  advance  whenever  he 
mentioned  the  subject. 

To  go  back  to  Frederica,  she  had  been  all 
season  without  an  engagement,  living  on  a 

42 


THE    ACTRESS 

small  allowance  her  father  sent  her.  He  didn't 
mind  this;  he  said  he  only  had  to  econo 
mize  when  she  began  working.  Then  she  had 
to  have  a  maid  and  cabs,  for,  although  a  large, 
healthy  girl,  she  was  deadly  afraid  to  go  out  at 
night.  In  short,  Frederica  was  in  no  way  in 
tended  for  the  stage  except  that  her  sweetness 
made  it  a  much  better  place  for  the  rest  of  us 
while  she  was  around. 

As  she  lived  next  door  to  my  theatre,  she  ran 
in  almost  every  evening  without  the  aid  of  mes 
senger-boys.  I  pretended  to  the  stage  doorman 
that  she  came  to  massage  my  face,  which  was 
an  awful  fib,  and  he  knew  it,  but  that  and  my 
twenty- five  cents  weekly  passed  her  through. 
At  least  she  came  unattended,  without  sign  of 
wealth.  Once  Hester  Bateman,  a  girl  friend  of 
mine  who  has  a  great  deal  of  money,  begged,  as 
they  all  do,  to  go  behind  the  scenes — "back  on 
the  stage "  is  what  we  say.  So  I  told  the  door 
man  that  my  seamstress  was  coming  to  fix  a 
gown  and  to  send  her  up-stairs.  When  I  came 
off  from  that  act  I  saw  him  eying  me  suspi 
ciously.  "Has  the  sewing -woman  come?"  I 
asked.  "Yes,"  he  snarled,  "and  brought  her 
footman."  And  there  was  James  by  the  door, 
white  breeches,  cockade,  and  all. 

43 


THE    ACTRESS 

Being  in  the  dressing-room,  Frederica  was 
really  obliged  to  hear  about  my  engagement.  I 
wanted  to  give  Maggie  fair  warning,  so  that  she 
could  get  some  one  else  to  dress.  Maggie  burst 
into  tears  when  she  heard  the  news,  and  said 
she  "hoped  to  God  I'd  make  a  hit."  Theatrical 
dressers  are  a  type  all  to  themselves.  They  are 
not  exactly  maids,  for  they  are  often  the  rela 
tives  of  the  stage-hands  in  the  theatre,  and  a 
stage  hand  is — feels  himself,  at  least — several 
degrees  higher  than  the  actor.  These  girls  will 
do  a  hundred  things  for  you  that  a  lady's  maid 
would  never  do,  and  call  you  "Honey"  while 
they  do  it,  and  they  can  get  you  in  and  out  of 
your  garments  with  a  deftness  that  would  as 
tonish  a  Frenchwoman. 

As  is  the  actress,  no  matter  how  incapable, 
generally  spoiled  for  any  other  walk  of  life  after 
a  few  years  on  the  stage,  so  is  the  dresser  fit 
only,  and  only  content  to  be  what  she  is.  She 
likes  the  reflection  of  the  lime-light,  the  joys 
and  successes  of  those  she  waits  upon,  and  the 
giggling  gossip  with  the  working  crew;  and, 
feeling  as  I  do  about  the  theatre,  I  should  pre 
fer  it  myself  to  any  other  kind  of  service. 

Frederica  did  not  know  the  truth  until  the 
end  of  the  second  act — at  least  I  kept  most  of 

44 


THE    ACTRESS 

it  back.  Then  I  sat  down  for  my  long  wait  and 
began  to  make  up  my  hands.  I  wore  gloves 
during  the  first  act,  and  only  had  to  rouge  my 
wrists  to  make  them  look  chapped,  and  color 
the  end  of  the  finger  that  sticks  out  through  a 
rip.  I  had  a  dreadful  time  getting  shabby- 
looking  gloves,  nor  could  they  be  up  to  date  in 
appearance,  and  whenever  I  found  old-fashioned 
ones  I  bought  a  lot  and  made  Maggie  wear  them 
around  the  dressing-room — which  she  hated. 
But  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  I  stained 
my  arms  at  the  elbow,  and  after  that  was  dry 
put  grease-paint  over  the  nails  to  take  off  the 
shine,  and  painted  blue  veins  on  the  hands  and 
up  the  arms. 

Frederica  had  just  finished  telling  me  what 
a  good  thing  it  would  be  for  Junius  Cutting  if 
he  would  engage  her,  too,  because  she  could 
live  with  an  aunt  in  London  and  wouldn't  need 
much  salary,  when  Mr.  Charles  Benny  came 
loafing  in  for  his  evening  call. 

Mr.  Benny  is  a  comedian,  as  his  name  fortu 
nately  suggests.  He  is  little  and  dried-up,  and 
so  funny  playing  just  himself  that  there  have 
been  moments  on  the  scene  when  I  could  scarce 
ly  look  at  him  without  laughing.  His  whole 
personality  exudes  humor,  and  if  he  could  sus- 

45 


THE    ACTRESS 

tain  a  long  role  he  would  be  a  great  comedian, 
but  he  can't.  He  is  known  as  an  excellent  "bit 
actor";  he  dashes  off  and  on  the  stage,  and  the 
audience  screams  at  him,  but  in  a  long  scene 
his  cheery  little  self  becomes  entirely  swamped 
by  those  around  him.  As  he  rarely  gets  a  big 
part,  however,  and  is  wise  enough  never  to  at 
tempt  to  be  anything  but  Mr.  Benny,  the  the 
atre-going  public  do  not  realize  that  they  are 
listening  to  a  man  who  at  the  time  of  his 
first  appearance  probably  reached  his  highest 
mark. 

We  had  no  sooner  looked  at  Mr.  Benny  than 
we  looked  at  each  other,  the  same  thought  un 
doubtedly  in  our  minds,  and  Frederica  said, 
solemnly,  "Rhoda,  it's  your  duty." 

You  see  we  both  felt  what  an  excellent  type 
Mr.  Benny  was,  and  how  nice  it  would  be  to 
have  him  go  along  to  cheer  us  up,  for  he  was 
not  a  noisy  comedian,  giving  "sidewalk  per 
formances,"  but  just  a  kindly  old  fellow  with 
shrewd  eyes  and  no  grammar.  I  hesitated,  how 
ever. 

"I  don't  think  it  would  be  right,"  I  said. 
"I  gave  my  word." 

"Well,  I  didn't,"  said  Frederica,  "so  I'll  tell 
him." 

46 


THE    ACTRESS 

"But  I  confided  in  you,"  I  persisted.  . 
'  "No,    you    didn't,    Miss    Miller,"    burst    in 
Maggie,    very    eager    also.     "Miss    Frederica 
overheard  you  telling  me." 

"Well,  then,  Maggie,"  I  concluded,  "you 
go  down-stairs  and  listen  for  my  cue.  Give 
me  plenty  of  time;  better  come  back  when  the 
minister  exits." 

So  Maggie  went  away  very  reluctantly,  and 
Frederica  told  him  the  news,  advising  him  to 
go  right  around  to  Cutting  in  the  morning. 
"I'm  engaged,"  said  she,  which  proves  that  her 
finest  qualification  for  the  stage  was  her  imag 
ination. 

"Gee!  I'd  like  to  get  it,"  said  Mr.  Benny. 
"Was  the  parts  good  ?" 

Here  I  had  to  confess  that,  although  a  lady 
of  some  importance,  I  had  not  been  offered  the 
script,  and,  indeed,  had  been  so  excited  over 
this  sudden  uprooting  of  my  be-Aaroned  life 
that  I  had  forgotten  to  ask  for  it. 

"Hallam  would  probably  object,  anyway," 
I  assured  them,  trying  to  placate  my  conscience 
for  a  bad  business  move.  "Since  he  has  ac 
quired  a  reputation  for  writing  good  parts,  he 
resents  the  actors'  opinions  as  to  their  being 
suited  to  them.  There'll  be  a  reading  of  the 

47 


THE    ACTRESS 

play  in  three  days,  and  I'm  to  call  in  for  my 
part  to-morrow." 

"Gee!  I  wish  it  was  morning,"  said  Mr. 
Benny,  rising  from  his  chair  and  carefully  hid 
ing  an  old  pipe  from  the  fireman  as  he  came 
along.  "Can't  seem  to  wait." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Frederica,  suddenly  remember 
ing  that  there  were  other  things  to  do  before 
she  pasted  steamship  labels  on  her  trunk. 

I  went  on  down,  always  a  little  nervous  when 
out  of  hearing  of  the  stage,  and  found  Maggie 
moving  away  from  a  knot  of  stage-hands.  They 
saluted  me  with  a  new  respect,  formed  other 
groups,  occasionally  reinforced  by  an  enquir 
ing  member  of  the  company,  and  by  the  time 
the  play  was  over  it  was  generally  understood 
that  Frederica,  Mr.  Benny,  and  myself  were 
going  to  London. 

And  they  really  were  engaged!  I  met  Mr. 
Benny  on  the  corner  of  Thirty-ninth  Street  as 
I  went  down  for  my  part  the  next  morning,  and 
he  was  beaming  from  ear  to  ear. 

"I  was  there  at  nine  o'clock,"  he  began, 
"but  I  didn't  have  a  chanst  to  say  a  word. 
Cutting,  the  minute  he  cum  in,  cut  a  swath 
with  a  sweep  of  his  eyes  around  the  room  that 
made  us  all  jump,  and  when  they  lit  on  me  he 

48 


THE    ACTRESS 

just  said,  'Cum  in,  you/  'Tain't  much  of  a 
part,  but  he's  goin'  t'  let  me  do  what  I  please 
with  it."  (This  with  a  delicious,  conscious 
pride.)  "I  like  him;  seems  a  nice  fellah." 

We  all  of  us  like  managers  when  they  engage 
us,  and  hate  them  when  they  don't.  I  was  glad 
Mr.  Benny  was  going,  and  yet  it  made  me  sad, 
for  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  the  little  man  who 
had  come  from  a  family  of  acrobats  and  had 
spent  most  of  his  life  in  poor  companies  playing 
in  London.  I  wondered  if  Mr.  Benny  would 
thank  me  as  profoundly  later  on  as  he  did  then. 

At  Thirty-eighth  Street  I  met  Frederica.  She 
was  asking  a  policeman  the  way  up-town,  and 
seemed  to  have  lost  her  wits  hopelessly. 

"It's  all  right,  dear,"  as  she  greeted  me.  "He 
said  he  needed  a  handsome  woman  who  was  an 
American  to  lead  the  dance-hall  girls  and  under 
study  as  well,  but  he  couldn't  possibly  pay  over 
twenty-five  dollars.  Of  course  I  said  I'd  go 
for  less  gladly — 

"Frederica,  you  didn't!" 

"Yes,  I  did.  There  were  a  dozen  far  better- 
looking  girls  in  the  outer  office,  and  I  was  afraid 
he'd  see  them  before  he  settled  with  me;  but 
don't  rave,  dear,  I  did  bargain  with  him  a  little." 

"How?"  I  demanded,  bluntly. 
49 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Well,  after  I  said  that  he  replied  that  if  I 
would  go  for  ten  dollars  a  week,  just  to  get  the 
trip  over  and  see  the  city,  that  he  believed  he 
could  settle  the  matter  then  and  there." 

"And  you  accepted?"  I  shrieked. 

"Give  me  time,  dear,"  retorted  my  friend, 
triumphantly.  "I  said  that  would  be  impossi 
ble — quite  impossible— but  that  I  would  accept 
fifteen." 

"And  you  are  going  for  that  ridiculous  sum  ?" 

Frederica  looked  uncomfortable. 

"Well,  not  exactly,  Rhoda.  Somehow  he 
wouldn't  entertain  that,  either,  and  just  as  he 
was  about  to  roll  back  his  chair,  in  that  dread 
ful  way  he  has  of  ending  our  hopes,  I  suggested 
a  compromise.  So  I'm  to  get  twelve  dollars  and 
fifty  cents." 

I  put  my  head  down  on  Frederica's  shoulder 
— it  doesn't  come  up  any  higher — and  laughed 
— not  in  my  sleeve,  but  in  hers.  It  was  a  very 
theatrical  thing  to  do  right  there  on  Broadway, 
and  some  people  passing  by  in  the  "Seeing 
New  York"  wagon  were  intensely  gratified,  but 
no  one  else  seemed  to  mind,  which  is  one  of  the 
joys  of  the  Rialto.  Then  I  went  on  up  to  get 
my  part. 

The  office-boy  was  clearing  the  room  ruth- 
5° 


THE    ACTRESS 

lessly.  "Positively  no  more  engagements 
made,"  he  was  saying,  and  I  could  have  slapped 
him  for  his  insolent  manner.  But  until  my 
calling  is  granted  the  place  among  the  arts  that 
it  deserves  we  will  continue  to  be  despised  by 
the  underlings. 

Junius  Cutting  wore  an  exhausted  look.  "I 
can't  imagine  how  the  news  of  this  London  pro 
duction  got  about,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  out  my 
part  from  a  lot  of  others.  "I  have  been  utterly 
besieged  this  morning." 

"They  all  need  work  so,"  I  half  apologized, 
feeling  a  trifle  guilty.  "And  you  know  you 
need  actors." 

"Yes,  but  I  need  plays  and  scenes  and  prop 
erties  and  theatres,  too.  I  must  give  some  time 
to  those  things.  The  actor  doesn't  seem  to  real 
ize  that  he  is  only  a  part  of  the  production." 

And  he  doesn't,  so  I  couldn't  argue  the  matter 
any  further  with  Junius,  though  I  should  have 
liked  to  ask  him  which  would  be  more  vital  to 
his  play — a  good  cast  or  a  good  pair  of  curtains. 

I  took  a  cab  back  to  the  house;  it's  not  a  habit 
with  me  as  with  Aaron,  but  I  couldn't  wait  any 
longer  to  look  at  my  part,  and  no  one  likes 
opening  in  a  car  those  blue-bound  type-written 
half-sheets  of  foolscap  with  which  all  New  York 


THE    ACTRESS 

is  familiar.  Of  course  I  couldn't  tell  what  bear 
ing  it  had  on  the  play,  but  the  lines  read  well. 
They  were  short  and  not  too  many,  and  so 
written  that  the  laugh  evidently  came  at  the 
end  of  the  speech,  as  it  should,  and  not  in  the 
middle  of  the  line.  Also  the  exits  were  good, 
to  judge  by  the  suggestion  of  business  in  the 
brackets,  but  there  was  a  continual  reference 
at  the  head  of  each  act  to  a  grotesque  appear 
ance,  which  suggested  that  I  would  have  to  be 
once  more  what  Aaron  called  a  "clown." 

Although  he  disputes  it,  for  he  must  see  me 
through  rose-colored  spectacles,  still  I  can  lend 
myself  very  easily  to  an  ugly  make-up.  My 
eyebrows  are  slight  enough  to  grease-paint  out 
entirely,  my  mouth  mobile  enough  to  twist  into 
any  shape,  my  nose  short  enough  to  be  made 
into  a  pug  or  to  hold  a  bridge  of  putty  if  I 
needed.  Even  the  hollows  just  under  my  cheek 
bones,  which  he  calls  the  softest  thing  about  me, 
"womanly  and  pathetic,"  and  all  that  sort  of 
foolishness,  serve  splendidly  when  I  want  to 
age  my  face  by  rubbing  gray  into  them.  And, 
after  all,  even  a  beautiful  woman,  which  I  am 
not,  will  lose  her  looks  if  she  pomades  her  brown, 
curly  hair,  and  slicks  it  up  into  a  tight  knot.  I 
once  told  Aaron  that  if  he  wished  to  contem- 

5* 


THE    ACTRESS 

plate  my  future  appearance,  unaided  by  my 
fluffy  curls,  to  see  me  just  before  the  wig  goes 
on. 

All  the  same,  I  would  rather  not  have  been 
grotesque  again,  and  I  sighed  a  little  the  day 
the  play  was  read  to  the  company  when  I  found 
what  a  lovely  part  the  leading  woman  had,  and 
thought  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have  Aaron 
come  just  once  to  the  theatre  and  hear  me 
greeted  by  the  half-breathed  wave  of  admira 
tion  that  runs  through  the  house  when  a  pretty 
actress  makes  her  entrance.  I  sternly  checked 
this  regret,  even  as  I  marvelled  at  it.  In  the 
first  place,  I  loved  my  "line,"  and,  in  the  sec 
ond  place,  I  cared  very  little  what  Aaron  thought 
of  me  on  or  off  the  stage,  and  to  mortify  my  flesh 
I  supped  with  him  that  night  in  my  very  old 
violet  gown — but  fortunately  it  was  my  most 
becoming  one. 

I  did  not  give  as  much   time   to  Aaron  as  I 

o 

or,  rather,  as  he  wished  from  that  time  on. 
Every  morning  I  was  up  at  eight,  for  rehearsals 
began  at  ten,  and  in  the  late  afternoon,  when 
he  sometimes  dropped  in  for  his  cocktail  in  our 
little  hotel  restaurant,  I  was  scouring  the  second 
hand  clothing-stores  for  old  boots  and  shabby 
gowns.  I  often  found  myself  enviously  staring 

53 


THE    ACTRESS 

at  queer  shawls  on  dirty  Italian  women,  and 
from  off  the  head  of  one  I  actually  did  buy  an 
old  hat. 

She  spoke  little  English,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  I  could  make  her  understand  that 
she  was  going  to  get  a  beautiful  new  one  for 
the  article  I  was  trying  to  wrest  from  her.  A 
crowd  collected  and,  as  usual  when  not  wanted, 
a  policeman  came  up,  which  almost  frightened 
her  off,  but  I  finally  got  it  and  left  her  staring 
transfixed  at  the  two-dollar  bill.  When  all  my 
wardrobe  was  collected,  Maggie  took  it  to  her 
house,  and,  after  fumigating  it,  baked  the  batch 
awhile  in  her  oven,  for  I  dared  not  wear  the 
garments  as  they  were,  nor  yet  wash  them  and 
thereby  lose  their  "atmosphere." 

Every  moment  seemed  full  of  my  new  part. 
Even  after  the  play — I  had  promised  the  Fullers 
I  would  stay  with  them  until  I  sailed — when 
Aaron  would  take  me  to  a  quiet  little  place  for 
a  bite  before  I  went  home  to  study,  I  would 
sit  with  one  eye  politely  on  my  host  and  the 
other  studying  wrinkles  on  the  faces  of  those 
about  me. 

"Why  don't  you  study  my  wrinkles,"  Aaron 
would  complain  when  he  saw  me  wandering. 

"Yours  are  only  a  few  firm  lines,"  I  replied. 
54 


THE    ACTRESS 

"They  would   give   strength   to  my  face,  and 
this  character  is  a  weak  half-breed." 

"I'm  not  positive  they  wouldn't  do,"  he  an 
swered,  a  little  sadly.  "I  feel  that  I'm  a  map 
of  them  these  days,  and  it  sure  is  a  weakness 
that  has  put  them  there." 

Then  for  the  first  time  of  late  I  looked  at 
Aaron  closely,  rightly,  as  though  I  had  lifted 
a  gauze  mask  from  his  face,  and  I  found  him 
looking  tired  and  grave,  and  that  his  smile  was 
only  painted  on  the  gauze.  And  once  more 
out  of  the  midst  of  all  that  rush  I  felt  that  I 
might  be  losing  a  great  deal  when  I  lost  him, 
and  I  had  to  think  hard  of  the  joy  of  that  scene 
in  the  last  act,  and  how  delicious  the  laugh  of 
the  house  would  be  if  I  could  land  it  just  in 
the  right  place.  So,  having  thought  of  these 
things,  I  realized  what  a  wise  move  I  was  mak 
ing  for  myself — and  Aaron — and  when  I  looked 
back  at  him  the  gauze  mask  was  on  again  and 
he  was  lighting  a  cigar. 

He  had  not  bothered  me  in  the  least  about 
marrying  him — had  made  no  reference  to  it 
since  our  day  in  the  down-town  restaurant — but 
still  the  flowers  came.  Not  the  kind  that  you 
order  over  a  telephone,  and  that  arrive,  a  dozen 
of  each,  with  a  few  dead  ones  at  the  bottom, 

55 


THE    ACTRESS 

but  boxes  breathing  spring  fragrance  and  the 
thought  of  the  giver.  Sometimes  arbutus  and 
deep,  long-stemmed  violets,  sometimes  just  lit 
tle  crocuses  with  white  star  flowers,  again  a  riot 
of  tulips  or  cool  gardenias  on  beds  of  green. 
And  often  when  I  put  them  in  the  vases  I  would 
have  to  tell  myself  that  a  man  was  not  neces 
sarily  eligible  as  a  husband  because  he  pos 
sessed  all  the  qualifications  of  a  florist. 

I  was  not  unappreciative,  however,  and  I 
sometimes  wished  that  Aaron  could  see  how 
they  made  alive  my  hotel  room. 

"You  ought  to  see  them  to-day,"  I  would  tell 
him.  And  Aaron  would  draw  on  the  menu  an 
elaborate  design  of  the  room  that  he  had  never 
seen,  and  we  would  make  dots  for  the  bowls  of 
flowers. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  would  say,  "that 
this  jar  of  crocuses  is  apt  to  get  water  on 
your  book  of  Gibson  girls,  being  so  close  to 
them  ?" 

"Aaron,  I  have  no  Gibson  girls.  A  copy  of 
Maeterlinck's  Wisdom  and  Destiny  is  sure  to 
be  there,  Shaw's  plays — or  I  wouldn't  be  an 
actress — and  a  little  thumbed  volume  of  the 
Browning  things  that  I  can  understand." 

"But  where,"  goes  on  Aaron,  "if  you  insist 
56 


THE    ACTRESS 

upon  putting  the  daffodils  on  the  top  of  your 
desk — where  will  my  photograph  be  ?" 

"Where  it  has  always  been,"  I  replied;  but 
I  wouldn't  tell  him  where. 

And  I  really  put  it  on  my  dresser  behind  the 
heart-shaped  pincushion  to  quiet  the  chamber 
maid.  Each  day  when  I  first  came  it  was  her 
custom  to  select  a  photograph  of  one  of  my  men 
friends  from  the  mantel-piece,  and,  placing  it  in 
that  coveted  position,  would  wait  for  me  to  de 
clare  myself.  The  silent  war  went  on;  each  day 
I  would  relegate  her  selection  to  its  old  place, 
until,  exhausted  by  her  guerilla  method,  I  se 
cured  a  perfectly  new  picture  of  Aaron,  and  a 
perfectly  new  heart-shaped  frame,  and  put  it 
back  of  the  heart-shaped  pincushion. 

Of  course  Aaron  had  never  seen  my  room. 
I  was  like  most  women  of  the  stage,  who,  ab 
horring  hotel  parlors,  have  gone  through  all  de 
grees  of  being  made  love  to  across  a  restaurant 
table.  One  gets  along  very  well  during  the 
first  stages.  The  pressure  of  the  fingers  as  both 
pick  up  a  fallen  glove,  a  hand-clasp  under  the 
table — very  shocking  this— the  lingering  over 
the  wraps,  even  the  stuffing  of  a  sleeve  into  a 
coat  is  an  opportunity  all  the  more  delicious 
because  the  world  is  looking  on  and  sees  noth- 
5  57 


THE    ACTRESS 

ing.  At  least  so  the  poor  dears  think.  Ad 
vancing  a  bit  in  the  love  game,  when  it  is  about 
decided  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  affinity 
after  all,  come  the  walks  through  the  park,  and 
the  drives  in  the  dusk  up  Riverside,  with  a  halt 
on  the  viaduct  ostensibly  to  look  at  the  lights 
of  the  river,  though  they  seldom  get  beyond  the 
lights  of  each  other's  eyes,  which  are  much 
more  beautiful.  I  won't  go  any  further  with 
the  lives  of  my  stage  people,  for  sometimes  they 
marry  and  sometimes  they  find — "It  was  all  a 
mistake,  my  dear;  we  really  were  not  suited  to 
each  other."  And  of  course  Aaron  and  I  were 
exceptions,  since  we  had  reached  the  cab  stage 
with  no  likelihood  of  going  beyond  it. 

Perhaps  it  was  for  the  sake  of  old  times  that 
he  suggested  a  drive  around  Claremont  before 
taking  me  down  to  the  boat.  We  were  sailing 
at  daybreak,  and  must  sleep  on  board,  or  at 
least  make  what  pretence  we  could  of  sleeping, 
with  the  engines  hoisting  luggage  all  night  and 
jovial  friends  coming  to  say  good-bye.  I  was  as 
near  collapse  as  an  actress  can  be  and  still  go 
on  playing  (which  is  saying  a  great  deal),  when 
the  curtain  rang  down,  and  the  orchestra,  to  the 
great  surprise  of  the  audience,  played  them  out 
with  "Auld  Lang  Syne,"  while  a  chorus  of 

58 


THE    ACTRESS 

voices  came  swelling  from  the  stage  to  be 
muffled  by  the  fall  of  the  asbestos  curtain. 

All  through  the  evening  our  playmates  had 
been  slyly  joking  with  Mr.  Benny  and  me. 
Crape  was  hung  over  our  dressing-tables,  the 
doorman  had  been  continually  bringing  in 
ridiculous  gifts  addressed  to  Miss  Miller,  Lon 
don.  Mr.  Benny  had  been  handed  on  the  stage 
during  an  act  a  book  marked,  "Jokes — English 
Version,"  which  proved,  upon  investigation,  to 
be  the  pamphlet  of  a  casket  company;  and  our 
daring  leading  man  and  woman  played  an 
entire  scene  for  our  benefit  with  an  alarming 
Cockney  accent. 

Maggie,  Frederica,  and  I  were  all  weeping 
wildly  at  the  parting,  and  Mr.  Benny  was  very 
intent  upon  swallowing  his  Adam's  apple — 
"Kinda  hate  to  go,"  he  said.  To  an  outsider 
it  would  have  suggested  a  tragedy.  We  were 
all  over  it  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  Aaron,  know 
ing  this  would  be  the  case,  let  me  cry  as  loud 
as  I  pleased  while  the  cab  rolled  over  the  wet 
asphalt  and  scrunched  into  the  gravel  of  the 

park. 

It  was  not  easy  to  stop  altogether.  I  was  so 
tired  with  the  packing,  rehearsing,  the  playing, 
the  choosing  of  my  wardrobe,  the  strain  of  com- 

59 


THE    ACTRESS 

mitting  lines,  and  the  unceasing  fear  lest  my 
part  should  prove  a  failure,  that  Aaron's  broad 
shoulder,  so  temptingly  near  me,  seemed  a 
haven  of  rest.  I  resisted  the  temptation,  how 
ever,  one  of  the  reasons  being  that  I  was  not 
asked. 

That  was  chief  of  the  queer  things  about  him: 
he  was  the  sort  of  man  that  you — one—  Well, 
to  be  honest,  /  could  not  sit  next  to  him  as  I 
rolled  along  in  the  dim  warmth  of  a  cab  without 
feeling  that  he  was  born  to  hold  a  woman  in  his 
arms,  and  that  it  was  his  strength,  not  his  weak 
ness  —  as  though  all  his  knowledge  of  stocks 
and  puts  and  calls  was  really  but  a  small  part 
of  him,  and  that  as  a  lover  he  would  be  at  his 
best.  And  yet  Aaron  had  never  tried  to  show 
me  this,  and  I  had  never  tried  to  make  him,  for 
of  all  the  types  of  womanhood  held  in  poor 
esteem  by  an  actress  the  most  despised  is  she 
who  permits  a  man  some  liberties  but  limits 
them  to  her  own  desires. 

Some  nights  as  we  had  gone  on  through  the 
darkness  he  had  taken  my  hand,  and,  laying  it 
on  his  knee,  covered  it  with  his  own,  but  his  arm 
had  never  been  about  me.  And  this  last  night 
he  did  not  even  lift  my  hand  from  my  muff,  but 
sat,  bent  over,  with  his  own  large  ones  gripped 

60 


THE    ACTRESS 

together,  and  watched  the  lights  through  the 
open  window. 

I  huddled  myself  up  in  my  corner,  feeling  very 
far  off  and  alone,  and  yet  too  tired  to  care  much. 
At  least  this  was  the  end  of  things,  and  almost 
any  kind  of  an  end  is  better  than  a  messy  con 
tinuance.  I  was  experiencing  the  relief  that 
a  girl  does  when  she  tears  up  pleasant  old  let 
ters — reluctantly  she  gives  them  up,  yet  smiles 
at  the  cleared  space  in  her  desk.  I  was  going 
on  to  new  letters,  business  ones.  And  Aaron — 
I  wondered  if  there  would  be  for  him  the  little, 
scented,  badly  spelled  notes  we  read  about.  I 
believed  not.  He  was  through  his  wild  oats. 
I  was  but  moving  out  of  his  life  for  a  wiser  and 
a  better- fitted  woman  to  move  in.  I  was  very 
sorry  for  myself  at  this,  and  thought  how  easy 
it  would  be  for  me  to  let  the  tears  roll  down  my 
cheeks  as  a  pretend  to  Aaron  that  I  was  grieved 
at  leaving  him.  But  I  conquered  the  tempta 
tion  as  one  not  beneath  me,  but  beneath  him, 
and  instead  was  about  to  exclaim  that  I  had 
forgotten  my  tooth-brushes,  when  Aaron  sud 
denly  pulled  up  the  window,  for  the  rain  was 
coming  in,  and  turned  to  me. 

"Good-evening,"  I  said. 

Aaron  laughed.  "  Have  you  got  lots  of  warm 
61 


THE    ACTRESS 

things  for  the  boat?  Warm  under — er — all 
sorts  of  flannels  ?" 

"I  don't  wear  them." 

"Dearest,  you  must." 

"I  won't!" 

"A  hot-water  bottle  ?" 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  wear  it." 

"  Keep  it  in  the  berth  for  your  feet." 

"All  right." 

A  silence. 

"I'm  glad  little  Benny  goes  with  you;  he'll 
look  after  you." 

"  I'll  probably  look  after  him,  and  Frederica, 
too." 

"Don't  let  that  kindly,  elephantine  girl  sap 
your  strength.  My  child  needs  rest." 

My  lips  wanted  to  quiver  at  this,  they  really 
did,  but  I  wouldn't  let  them. 

Aaron  peered  out  through  the  rain-smirched 
glass. 

"We're  almost  there.  Get  a  deck-chair  on 
the  sunny  side,  won't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

Another  silence.  I  found  myself  holding 
Aaron's  coat-sleeve.  He  let  me,  but,  "Dear 
little  love,"  he  said,  then  stared  out  of  the  win 
dow  again.  We  were  twisting  our  way  along 

62 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  wharf.  The  rain  was  so  heavy  we  could 
not  see  out,  and  no  one  could  see  in,  although 
the  lights  came  sifting  through. 

"Is  all  your  baggage  looked  after?"  Even 
while  he  spoke  Aaron's  lips  seemed  to  be  form 
ing  other  words,  but  he  would  not  give  them 
sound. 

'Yes,  I  drove  to  the  ship  this  afternoon,  and 
Maggie  took  down  my  make-up  to-night.  You 
won't  come  aboard,  will  you  ?" 

"I  think  not,  then.  I'll  say  good-bye  here. 
Rhoda— " 

Without  warning  Aaron  took  me  in  his  arms, 
forced  up  my  face,  which  I  had  hidden  against 
his  shoulder,  with  his  strong  chin,  and  kissed 
me  on  the  lips.  Through  the  slashing  of  whips, 
the  trundling  of  trucks,  and  the  shouts  of  the 
stevedores,  my  thoughts  ran  as  incongruous  as 
my  surroundings  while  my  lips  were  against  his. 

"Why,  I  have  kissed  other  men  before,  with 
whom  I  had  mistaken  loneliness  for  love,  and 
Aaron  is  nothing  to  me.  But  this  force,  this 
strength,  new  to  me,  taking  my  breath,  my  life. 
Taking  it  ? — -no,  giving  me  his,  rather.  And  to 
think  that  I — I  have  inspired  this!  Why,  there 
is  despair  in  this  kiss,  and  hunger,  and  the  depths 
of  a  good  man's  soul,  and  the  height  of  a  joy 

63 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  have  never  known  before — and  the  end  of  it 
all." 

Yes,  the  end  of  it  all.  Just  what  I  had 
wanted  ten  minutes  before,  for  the  cab  came  to 
a  stop,  and  an  instant  later  the  handle  of  the 
door  was  turned  and  opened  by  a  steward,  who 
found  two  well-controlled  occupants  waiting  to 
alight. 

Aaron  handed  me  out,  and  I  believe  I  thanked 
him  for  bringing  me  down.  I  am  sure  he  wished 
me  a  good  voyage;  and  then,  under  the  guidance 
of  the  steward,  I  mounted  the  slippery  gang 
plank.  I  did  not  turn  back,  and  evading  the 
company,  who  were  in  the  dining-saloon,  went 
to  my  state-room. 

"Tell  them  I  have  gone  to  bed,"  was  the  word 
I  sent  down.  But  long  into  the  morning  I  sat 
on  the  edge  of  my  hard  sofa,  hat  and  coat  still 
unremoved,  my  breath  filling  the  cold  air  with 
little  puffs  of  white  vapor. 


IV 


WE  were  eight  days  on  the  boat,  and  in  that 
time  the  members  of  our  company  prob 
ably  met  and  talked  with  more  men  and  women 
not  of  their  world  than  they  would  in  a  season 
on  the  road.  Though  many  drawing-rooms  are 
barred  to  the  actor  in  America,  he  is  uncrushed 
by  it,  the  reason  being  that  death  is  sweeter  to  him 
than  the  necessity  of  entering  this  forbidden  land. 
During  a  girl's  first  few  years  on  the  stage— 
and  of  course  I  take  the  average  girl  when  I 
speak  in  this  manner — she  makes  an  effort  to 
seek  out  her  school  friends  if  she  plays  their 
cities,  and  she  entertains  them  when  they  come 
to  New  York  by  giving  them  a  peep  behind  the 
scenes  if  she  can  manage  it,  but  little  by  little, 
if  her  interests  are  confined  entirely  to  the  stage, 
she  slips  in  and  out  of  the  towns  without  send 
ing  her  cards  about,  makes  excuses  for  escaping 
teas,  and  avoids  even  the  healthful  pleasure  of 
a  day  at  a  country  club  for  fear  of  having  to 
"meet  people." 

65 


THE    ACTRESS 

The  old  'uns  are  worse;  while  the  well-man 
nered  young  actor  of  the  day  enjoys  the  clubs 
throughout  the  country,  and  in  that  way  makes 
many  friends,  the  older  generation  sit  in  the 
chairs  of  the  hotel  lobby,  walk  about  the  main 
streets  of  the  town,  look  at  the  periodicals  in 
the  shop  windows,  and  return  to  sit  in  the  chairs 
of  the  hotel  lobby.  Though  facing  a  multitude 
nightly,  and  rubbing  shoulders  with  thousands 
throughout  the  season,  they  keep  as  strictly  to 
themselves  as  though  they  were  a  travelling 
family — with  all  the  discords  of  a  family- 
speaking  an  unknown  tongue. 

On  the  boat  it  was  different.  In  the  first 
place,  after  the  wonderful  fashion  news  has  of 
getting  about  a  liner,  the  word  ran  from  mouth 
to  mouth  that  a  company  was  on  board,  and 
this  intelligence,  while  not  as  alarming  as  though 
a  barrel  of  snakes  had  been  reported,  was  quite 
as  inspiriting. 

"Do  you  know  which  ones  are  the  actors?" 
said  a  woman  from  Michigan  to  me  on  the  sec 
ond  day  out.  "  I've  never  seen  one,"  she  added, 
rather  apologizing  that  she  could  not  pick  them 
out  on  sight. 

So  I  showed  her  a  ward  politician  in  large 
checked  clothes,  a  henna-haired  lady  who  leads 

66 


THE    ACTRESS 

society  in  a  manufacturing  town,  and  a  rather 
gay  young  man  who  was  going  into  an  Anglican 
brotherhood.  "That's  all  I  see  at  present,"  I 
said,  gazing  steadily  at  Frederica,  who  was  with 
me.  "All  who  can  act,  I  mean." 

Frederica  became  violent  at  this,  so  I  had  to 
hurry  her  away,  and  I  felt  sorry  all  the  rest  of 
the  trip  for  the  homely  lady.  But  who  would 
come  up  to  a  lawyer  and  ask  him  to  point  out 
all  the  other  lawyers  on  board  ? 

Had  the  lady  been  more  experienced  she  could 
have  done  her  own  picking,  and  more  success 
fully.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  we  are  dif 
ferent.  Even  the  quiet  and  quietly  dressed  ones 
have  a  stamp  of  their  own.  It  may  be  their 
lack  of  self-consciousness  or  perhaps  their  lack 
of  restraint,  for  it  is  our  duty  in  life  to  expend 
our  emotions,  not  to  repress  them.  We  are  a 
band  exempt  from  social  law,  and  each  actor 
feels  in  his  perfect  freedom  that  the  world  is  his 
to  conquer — if  he  gets  the  part. 

Then,  our  capacity  for  enjoyment  and,  in 
versely,  for  being  miserable  is  very  great. 
When  not  entirely  unhappy  during  rehearsal 
hours  on  board  the  boat  we  were  very  happy 
talking  over  our  unhappiness.  We  sat  long 
over  our  nuts  and  raisins  in  the  dining-saloon 

67 


THE    ACTRESS 

every  night,  each  one  afraid  to  go  off  in  a  cor 
ner  and  think  of  his  part,  but  we  were  enjoying 
ourselves  at  the  time,  and  even  the  ship's  doc 
tor  did  not  repress  us  as  an  outsider  is  apt  to 
do.  The  ship's  doctor  told  us  his  usual  polite 
He  that  this  was  the  best  crowd  his  table  had 
ever  seen,  and  we  told  him  all  the  good  stories 
we  knew  for  him  to  retail  on  other  trips— that 
is,  Mr.  Benny  told  him,  and  the  leading  man 
and  myself.  Frederica  never  could  think  of 
her  story  until  some  one  else  got  in  ahead  of 
her,  and  the  leading  woman  didn't  tell  stories 
at  all,  but  laughed  at  them,  with  or  without  a 
point. 

Her  name  was  Bella,  and  she  had  a  last  name, 
too,  but  I  believe  she  would  rather  be  known 
as  the  leading  lady — the  L.  L.  we  designated 
her — than  any  other  title,  for  she  had  no  higher 
aspiration  in  life  than  the  best  dressing-room 
in  the  company.  I  had  played  with  her  before, 
and  had  nothing  at  all  against  her  except — if  one 
can  understand  me — -she  was  of  the  kind  who 
passes  through  a  door  her  predecessor  is  politely 
holding  open  for  her  without  in  turn  relieving  her 
of  its  pressure.  Also  she  would  play  a  scene  con 
scientiously,  then  retire  to  the  wings  to  talk  in 
a  loud  voice,  to  the  great  distress  of  those  left 

68 


THE    ACTRESS 

on  the  stage.  She  was  warm-hearted  to  a  de 
gree  when  reminded  of  the  necessity  of  being 
so,  but  she  did  not  seek  good  works,  as  she  was 
probably  unaware  that  there  were  other  diffi 
culties  in  life  beyond  her  own.  Andrew  Car 
negie  calls  a  type  of  the  poverty-stricken  "the 
submerged,'*  and  I  think  Bella  was  submerged 
in  self,  and  could  never  rise  above  the  engulfing 
waters  of  her  own  appreciation. 

In  the  most  perfect  contrast  to  her  was  the 
wife  of  the  leading  man.  Here  was  a  woman  who 
had  started  her  career  as  an  actress  with  some 
promise  of  success.  She  had  reached  the  period, 
anyway,  when  she  could  walk  out  of  an  office, 
head  high,  at  the  mention  of  forty  dollars  a 
week  salary  and  could  not  be  induced  to  return 
under  fifty  dollars.  Then  she  met  Bruce  Far- 
quhar  in  a  road  company  and  married  him  in 
Oshkosh  one  Sunday.  Fortunately  their  love 
for  each  other  was  not  the  result  of  propinquity 
and  loneliness,  and  they  started  "right" — so  it 
would  be  generally  called  —  for  they  resolved 
that  they  should  stay  together  even  if  she  must 
sacrifice  good  parts.  That  sounds  like  one 
sided  heroism,  but  by  practically  abandoning 
her  work  it  forced  him  into  a  position  of  bread 
winner,  into  the  necessity  of  providing  for  her, 

69 


THE    ACTRESS 

which  is  an  obligation  wives  of  the  stage  are 
very  eager  in  their  ambition  to  take  upon  them 
selves. 

And  this  sometimes  is  the  beginning  of  the 
end,  for  unless  their  love  is  very  strong,  their 
interests  mutual,  they  grow  accustomed  to  liv 
ing  months  apart,  and  from  once  rebelling 
against  her  spirit  of  independence,  he  gradually 
takes  it  as  the  natural  process  in  married  life. 
Then  come  a  few  weeks  in  the  summer  when 
they  are  together,  half  acquainted,  impatient 
of  each  other's  weaknesses,  absorbed  in  their 
own  ambition,  both  waiting  restlessly  for  work 
to  begin  again. 

It  was  not  so  with  Bruce  Farquhar  and,  as 
we  always  called  her,  Bruce  Farquhar's  wife. 
She  played  when  there  was  a  part  for  her  in  her 
husband's  company,  and  at  any  salary  the 
management  would  offer.  When  there  was 
nothing  she  travelled  with  him,  and  as  this  was 
an  expensive  proceeding  they  lived  in  moderate- 
priced  hotels,  he  cutting  out  his  cigars  and  she 
giving  up  silk  petticoats.  I  often  watched  her 
watching  him  in  those  days  on  the  boat,  and 
sometimes  watched  him  watching  her — but  not 
so  often.  There  was  a  tranquillity  about  her 
which  I  could  not  understand,  knowing  what 

70 


THE    ACTRESS 

she  had  given  up.  For  I  remembered  she  had 
adored  her  work  as  I  still  did.  This  love-game 
was  somehow  growing  interesting  to  me. 

"Are  you  always  happy?"  I  asked  one  day, 
as  we  sat  in  our  deck-chairs  nibbling  ginger- 
snaps  at  tea-time. 

"It's  been  a  long  time  since  I've  cried,"  she 
answered. 

I  colored  a  little  because  I  knew  she  must 
have  seen  me  snivelling  up  on  the  hurricane- 
deck  -  "because  my  part  wouldn't  rehearse 
well,"  was  the  reason  I  had  given. 

"When  was  that?  Do  tell  me.  Real  life  is 
so  interesting,  it's  growing  almost  as  absorbing 
as  the  stage  world  has  always  been  to  me." 

Bruce  Farquhar's  wife  looked  at  me  in  as 
tonishment. 

"Growing  absorbing,"  she  repeated.  "You 
imitate  real  life;  it  is  your  constant  study,  and 
yet  you  find  the  imitation  more  interesting  than 
the  reality.  Does  one  prefer  the  shadow  to  the 
substance  ?" 

I  moved  restlessly,  and  brushed  my  hand 
across  my  lips  as  though  to  sweep  away  the 
memory  of  a  substance  that  would  not  become 
a  shadow. 

"It's  less  disquieting,"  I  murmured. 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Do  you  think  so  ?"  she  said.  "Why,  it  was 
the  stage  world,  as  you  call  it,  and  its  vanities 
that  afforded  me  my  last  cry — my  last  good  cry, 
anyway.  We  were  playing  Savannah — that  is 
my  home — for  the  first  time  since  my  marriage, 
and  I  did  have  an  awful  part  in  that  piece  'Pan 
dora's  Box.'  I  came  on  and  stood  a  minute 
with  the  others,  then  ran  off  again.  And  all 
through  the  act  I  had  to  keep  that  up,  not  speak 
ing  a  line  till  the  second  act.  Of  course,  I  played 
it  to  be  with  Bruce;  but  how  was  I  going  to 
make  all  my  friends  understand  that  ?  I  had 
hoped  to  slip  in  and  out  of  town  without  being 
discovered;  but  the  manager  of  the  theatre  saw 
my  name  in  the  advance  sheets  and  worked  it 
in  the  press,  and  of  course  the  house  was  full  of 
old  acquaintances,  all  expecting  me  to  play  a 
nice  ingenue,  as  I  had  two  years  before.  They 
singled  me  out  of  all  that  crowd  and  gave  me 
an  enthusiastic  reception,  and  just  as  soon  as 
they  had  finished  I  had  to  make  my  exit  without 
a  word  to  say.  Oh,  it  was  dreadful!  I  cried 
then;  perhaps  it  had  been  pent  up  for  a  long 
while;  I  certainly  cried  it  all  out.  And,  do  you 
know,  throughout  the  evening  I  almost  hated 
Bruce!" 

Her  voice  sank  to  an  awed  whisper,  but  I 
72 


THE    ACTRESS 

didn't  see  any  reason  for  it;  the  very  thought  of 
that  part  made  me  hate  him.  However,  she 
went  on. 

"He  was  lovely  about  it."  She  generally  re 
ferred  to  Farquhar  as  "he."  "We  had  sup 
per  with  some  friends  afterward,  and  he  pro 
posed  a  toast  'to  the  best  wife  in  the  world,' 
then  tried  to  explain  why  I  was  playing  so  small 
a  part;  only,  of  course,  they  couldn't  get  it 
straight,  and  will  always  feel  that  it  must  have 
been  a  mistake — their  thinking  I  could  act  when 
they  saw  me  before,  I  mean..  But  I  didn't  care 
after  Bruce's  toast." 

I  was  still  feeling  very  rebellious  about  it 
myself,  yet  trying  to  agree  with  her,  knowing 
how  she  would  take  Farquhar's  part  and  resent 
my  not  doing  so  also,  when  Bella  and  Lawrence 
Chester  came  up. 

I  don't  believe  I've  referred  to  Lawrence 
Chester,  whom  as  soon  as  you  meet  you  call 
Larry.  There  were  other  members  of  the  com 
pany  besides  the  six  I  mention,  but  they  were 
English,  and  they  were  so  absorbed  over  getting 
home  for  the  summer  and  having  a  "shop"  in 
London  as  well,  that  they  seldom  moved  from 
the  bow  of  the  ship  after  the  first  day  out,  fear 
ing  they  might  miss  a  British  isle.  Then,  too, 
6  73 


THE    ACTRESS 

they  made  acquaintances  among  the  laymen 
more  easily  than  did  we,  and  spent  a  good  deal 
of  time  among  them,  for  in  England  the  draw 
ing-room  doors  are  open  wide  to  actors,  and 
many  of  the  stars  build  the  foundations  of  their 
popularity  upon  cups  of  afternoon  tea. 

Bella  and  Larry  Chester,  however,  had  been 
playing  shuffle-board  with  a  party  from  the  West, 
and  Bella  had  grown  sufficiently  well  acquainted 
to  tell  them  the  parts  she  had  played  and  what 
hotel  she  patronized  in  their  town.  As  for 
Lawrence  Chester,  I  caught  him  in  cold  blood 
confiding  to  one  of  his  partners  that  he  had  not 
gone  over  for  the  play,  but — -and  here  he  went 
through  a  bit  of  pantomime  which  suggested 
that  he  was  going  away  "to  forget"  and  that 
he  was  suffering  a  great  deal.  His  partner 
gazed  at  him  with  much  interest,  agreeing  to 
keep  his  secret,  and  then  Larry  caught  my  eye 
as  I  sat  serenely  on  a  hatch,  and  he  looked  rather 
uncomfortable.  At  our  first  rehearsal  Larry 
had  begged  me  to  keep  his  secret,  and  had 
pleaded  with  Frederica  to  do  the  same  at  the 
second.  Of  course  Frederica  immediately  told 
me,  and  was  shocked  with  my  indifference  to 
his  grief. 

"One  would  think  you  might  be  the  girl," 
74 


THE    ACTRESS 

she  said,  which  was  rather  clever  of  Fred- 
erica. 

;'The  girls,"  you  mean,  I  retorted,  for  I  had 
known  Larry  Chester  ever  since  he  first  bounded 
upon  the  stage. 

He  was  a  boy  to  whom  all  things  came  easily. 
Vanity  sent  him  to  the  theatre  and  ability  kept 
him  there,  though  his  good  looks  gave  him  his 
start.  He  hadn't  a  ghost  of  an  ancestor  from 
whom  to  inherit  his  talent,  and  he  hadn't  a 
scrap  of  brain  to  help  him  in  his  work.  What 
he  did  well  he  did  intuitively,  and  with  such 
careless  ease  that  it  was  small  wonder  the  other 
actors  in  the  company  who  toiled  over  their 
lines  and  thought  out  the  conception  of  their 
parts  were  often  inclined  to  wring  his  beautiful 
neck.  While  quite  conscious  of  his  winning 
personality,  he  attributed  his  stage  successes 
and  his  conquests  to  luck. 

"Of  course  our  side  won,"  he  said,  as  he 
cheerily  wrapped  us  all  up  in  rugs.  "I  am  so 
lucky  if  a  wave  washed  me  off  this  boat  I  know 
another  wave  would  put  me  back."  He  sat 
down  in  an  unoccupied  chair  and,  after  lighting 
a  cigarette,  asked  if  he  might  smoke. 

"I  don't  know  how  they  push  those  jiggers 
so  far,"  complained  the  leading  lady.  "If  it 

75 


THE    ACTRESS 

didn't  take  the  flesh  off  of  one's  hips  nothing 
could  induce  me  to  spend  my  time  getting 
sunburned.  One  can  grease-paint  over  sun 
burn,  however,  but  over  hips — nothing  doing." 
Bella  was  rather  inelegant  when  she  was  most 
in  earnest. 

"I  know  a  girl  with  hips,"  commented  young 
Mr.  Chester,  "and  she  wears  corsets  that — ' 

"Hush,"  said  the  L.  L.  Bella  was  of  the 
kind  who  could  say  things  herself,  but  would 
permit  no  one  else  to. 

"Of  course  you  do,  Larry,"  I  encouraged; 
"and  she  sent  you  heart-broken  across  the  seas, 
didn't  she  ?" 

Larry  looked  reproachfully  at  me,  as  though 
I  had  eavesdropped.  "That  is  not  the  one, 
anyhow,"  he  replied;  and  then  in  a  low  tone  in 
tended  for  me,  and  very  bitter:  "Can  no  wom 
an  keep  a  secret  ?" 

Before  I  could  suitably  respond  to  the  boy 
Bruce  Farquhar  had  joined  us,  sitting  on  the 
footstool  of  his  wife's  chair,  while  Mr.  Benny, 
wearing  a  large  yachting  cap,  although  still  a 
little  squeamish,  shared  mine.  The  promenad- 
ers,  getting  up  an  appetite  for  dinner,  smiled 
down  at  us  as  they  passed  and  repassed. 

"What  do  you  suppose  they  talk  about, 
76 


THE    ACTRESS 

papa  ?"  one  elderly  woman  was  heard  to  re 
mark  to  her  husband. 

"Oh,  about  op'ry-houses,  I  guess,"  returned 
papa. 

And  papa  wasn't  far  from  wrong.  While  the 
conversation  of  a  group  of  players  might  begin 
with  whales — their  habits — by  some  magic  that 
subject  would  lead  up  naturally  and  easily  to 
the  thing  nearest  their  hearts — the  gentle  art 
of  acting. 

The  success  of  the  play  was  very  near  our 
hearts,  and  one  that  never  wearied  us  as  we 
discussed  it.  At  the  reading  it  had  seemed  ex 
cellent,  had  rehearsed  even  better,  and  this  does 
not  always  happen,  for  a  play  may  have  literary 
merits  yet  still  lack  dramatic  worth.  But  now 
as  we  were  nearing  England,  when  the  daily  re 
hearsals  in  the  dining-saloon  consisted  in  mak 
ing  ourselves  as  inconspicuous  as  possible,  and 
repeating  lines  without  action,  the  drama  seem 
ed  a  weird  jumble  of  meaningless  phrases,  un- 
dramatic,  unfunny,  and,  above  all,  very  Ameri 
can.  With  wary  eye  for  the  sudden  coming  of 
the  playwright,  we  told  and  retold  these  things 
to  one  another,  all  of  us  arguing  from  the  stand 
point  of  our  own  parts. 

"What  do  you  think  about  my  scene  with 
77 


THE    ACTRESS 

you  in  the  first  act,  Mr.  Farquhar  ?"  queried 
the  L.  L.  "Now,  I  think,"  she  went  on,  giving 
him  no  opportunity  to  reply,  "  that  it  is  ridiculous 
for  me  to  play  that  scene  seated  on  a  log.  The 
speeches  are  too  strong  to  be  wasted  on  a  log 
like  that.  I  should  move  about  more." 

Bella  always  saw  the  veneer  of  her  work  only, 
and  if  she  had  been  anything  but  a  beautiful 
leading  lady  her  audience  would  have  discovered 
this.  As  it  was,  her  loveliness  and  her  silver 
voice  charmed  their  senses  and  dulled  their 
wits. 

"If  you  mean  my  scene  with  you,"  responded 
Farquhar — we  all  joyfully  marked  the  repeti 
tion  of  the  phrase  and  the  sense  of  proprietor 
ship  it  conveyed  in  each  case — "where  I  am 
cleaning  that  gun,  I'm  afraid  it  won't  go,  any 
way.  You  see,  I'm  stringing  you,  thinking 
you're  a  country  girl,  and  I'm  afraid  the  Britons 
may  feel  it  rude." 

"Can't  they  see  a  joke?"  said  Mr.  Benny, 
nervously. 

"Of  course  they  can,  as  quickly  as  any  na 
tion,"  I  put  in,  "but  you  know  stringing— well, 
stringing  is  stringing."  This  was  rather  a 
lamentable  start,  but  I  warmed  to  my  subject 
at  the  thought  of  my  own  part.  "Now,  I'm 

78 


THE    ACTRESS 

afraid  of  the  first  scene  Larry  and  I  have  to 
gether,  for  we  don't  use  one  expression  that 
can't  be  traced  to  some  cattle  or  mining  term. 
What  do  they  know  of  Western  slang  ?  And 
what  do  they  care  ?" 

"Oh,  it'll  go  all  right,"  said  young  Mr.  Ches 
ter.  "I'm  in  it.  It's  just  my  luck,  you  know," 
he  added,  at  our  shriek  of  derision. 

"Gee!  I  wisht  I  could  feel  that  way,"  said 
Mr.  Benny,  looking  enviously  at  the  radiant 
youth.  "When  I  hear  my  voice  whispering  out 
lines  at  those  foolish  rehearsals  down-stairs,  I 
just  wonder  why  I  didn't  stay  a  acrobat.  I  tell 
you,  actors  have  got  to  be  on  the  stage  to  play 
their  parts,  not  in  a  dining-room." 

This  was  the  cry  of  the  old-timer;  but  we  felt 
that  he  was  right,  or  we  wished  to  feel  so  at  any 
rate,  and  instinctively  took  heart.  Frederica 
added  peace  to  our  minds  by  appearing  with 
the  announcement  that  we  were  sure  to  make 
a  success. 

"I've  put  on  my  petticoat  wrong  side  out  for 
the  fourth  day  in  succession,"  she  exclaimed, 
"and  there  are  white  marks  on  my  third  finger 
nail!" 

"But  that  means  a  beau,"  I  argued. 

"Well,  I  haven't  a  beau,  and  I  don't  want 
79 


THE    ACTRESS 

one,"  returned  Frederica,  "and  a  hit's  the  next 
best  thing." 

"The  next  best  thing?"  I  said,  throwing  off 
my  rug  and  preparing  for  a  walk.  "The  very, 
very  best  thing,  you  mean." 

I  looked  back  over  my  shoulder  at  Bruce 
Farquhar's  wife  as  I  said  this,  and  she  shook 
her  head  at  me,  slipping  her  hand  affectionately 
into  her  husband's  as  she  did  so.  And  once 
more  I  instinctively  drew  my  fingers  across  my 
lips,  as  though  to  banish  a  memory  that  was  in 
deed  a  reality.  Then  I  forced  myself  into  a 
silent  going  over  of  the  lines  and  business  of 
the  new  part,  while  I  walked  briskly  to  and  fro 
on  the  sunset  side.  As  the  sun  dropped  into 
its  bed  and  the  pink  afterglow  rouged  our  ves 
sel  like  a  chorus  girl,  I  stood  at  the  rail,  and  for 
a  moment  felt  that  the  lines  of  a  grotesque  char 
acter  part  were  hardly  fitted  for  the  scene. 

"There  should  be  some  one  to  enjoy  it  with 
me,"  I  murmured,  yet  stepped  out  of  sight  when 
Frederica  and  Mr.  Benny  hove  into  view.  They 
were  somehow  not  just  the  ones  I  wanted.  My 
shadow  blocked  the  smoking-room  door,  how 
ever,  and  Larry  Chester,  seeing  me,  came  out 
with  a  Marconigram  in  his  hand. 

"It's  from  her,"  he  said,  endeavoring  to  con- 
So 


THE    ACTRESS 

ceal  his  excitement  with  a  bored  air.  "She  says 
she  misses  me,  and  she's  coming  over  next 
month  with  a  woman  friend."  Young  Mr. 
Chester  filliped  the  paper  with  his  finger,  a 
cloud  on  the  horizon  of  his  happy  melancholy. 
"Lord,"  he  added,  "I  hope  she  won't!" 

I  turned  in  a  sudden  rage  that  was  expended 
upon  him,  though  not  entirely  occasioned  by 
him. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  do  want,  Larry 
Chester  ?"  I  demanded. 

Young  Mr.  Chester  gazed  at  me  wonderingly. 
For  a  second  there  was  that  in  his  face  which 
suggested  a  certain  pleasure,  as  well  as  surprise 
that  I  could  feel  so  keen  over  his  affairs.  There 
rose  before  him  a  vista  of  joyful  possibilities, 
wherein  his  youth  and  my  twenty-two  years  in 
no  way  clashed,  then  he  dismissed  the  thought 
as  one  unworthy  of  him — so  soon — and  an 
swered  me  like  a  blunt  school-boy. 

"Know  what  I  do  want  ?     No;  do  you  ?" 

I  had  not  expected  this,  and  it  served  to  lash 
me  into  further  vehemence. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  hurling  out  my  words  de 
fiantly,  "there's  just  one  thing  I  want,  and 
nothing  else  in  the  world  I  want,  and  I  want 
you  and  every  one  else  to  know  it:  I  want  to 

81 


THE    ACTRESS 

make  a  hit! — I  want  to  make  a  hit!— I  WANT 
TO  MAKE  A  HIT!" 

And  with  this  I  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
boat,  leaving  Mr.  Chester  to  reflect  that,  as 
yet,  he  did  not  entirely  understand  the  genus 
woman. 


ONCE  I  wrote  a  rhyme.  It  seemed  very 
good  then,  and  I  called  it  a  poem;  but  at 
the  time  I  was  on  three  weeks  of  one-night 
stands  through  Illinois  and  Iowa,  and  under 
these  circumstances  one  should  be  forgiven 
much.  It  ran: 

"Their  lives  are  like  their  stretch  of  fields, 

Each  man  pays  toll; 
For  though  the  land  rich  produce  yields, 

He  sows  his  soul. 
Oh,  may  my  life  be  of  the  hills! 

Though  hard  and  rough, 
Monotony  and  all  its  ills 

Is  twice  as  tough." 

I  had  not  intended  it  to  end  that  way,  but  I 
could  think  of  no  other  word  to  rhyme  with 
rough  except  scruff,  and  it  seemed  no  better. 
The  company  thought  it  ought  to  be  drama 
tized,  and  they  put  it  to  a  dirge,  singing  it  to 
me  whenever  we  had  to  get  up  at  three  in  the 

83 


THE    ACTRESS 

morning  to  catch  a  train.  So  on  the  whole  it 
didn't  add  to  my  reputation,  and  if  the  "first 
old  woman"  could  have  had  her  way  it  would 
have  considerably  damaged  my  standing. 

She  never  cared  a  great  deal  for  me,  did  Mrs. 
Defoe,  but  could  find  no  reason  for  her  intuitive 
dislike  beyond  my  always  asking  her  at  supper 
how  she  had  spent  the  day.  Now,  as  every  one 
knew,  and  as  she  was  uneasily  aware,  she  in 
variably  crawled  through  the  hours  sitting  in  a 
rocking-chair  in  her  hotel  room,  rocking,  star 
ing  up  unblinkingly  at  the  sun,  or  reading  the 
letter  list  in  a  dramatic  paper.  She  quite  right 
ly  resented  my  endeavors  to  stir  her  into  activity, 
became  suspicious  of  my  own  alertness,  and  at 
last  "  found  Scripture  "  for  her  antipathy  in  my 
written  declaration  for  vicissitudes. 

"I  always  knew,"  I  heard  her  say  on  the 
night  of  the  evolution  of  the  rhyme — the  dress 
ing-room  walls  were,  as  usual,  very  thin — "I 
always  knew  there  was  something  wrong  about 
her  by  the  way  she  flies  around  and  sees  remark 
able  things  out  of  the  car  window.  Objects  to 
monotony,  does  she  ?  All  I  have  to  say  is— 
'watch!'" 

I  could  hear  the  girls  politely  protesting  as 
they  endeavored  to  hide  their  amusement,  but 

84 


THE    ACTRESS 

she  swept  their  arguments  away  between  flaps 
of  powder  on  her  face. 

" Don't  talk  to  me!  When  a  girl  tries  to  drag 
out  an  old  woman  to  tear  about  the  streets  with 
her,  she's  trying  to  use  her  as  a  blind.  Good 
exercise  for  me,  humph!  Very  likely." 

"Mrs.  Defoe,"  I  then  called  through  the  thin 
partition,  "may  I  borrow  back  my  soap  if  you 
are  through  with  it  ?"  And  poor  Mrs.  Defoe 
subsided  in  helpless  terror. 

The  Illinois  circuit  is  a  long  way  from  Lon 
don,  yet  all  through  those  few  days  and  night 
mares  before  the  opening  of  our  play  the  silly 
words,  set  to  the  dirge  of  my  friends,  kept  beat 
ing  themselves  into  my  brain.  And  that  which 
I  longed  for  was  granted  to  me.  There  was  very 
little  monotony  in  our  waking  or  sleeping  mo 
ments  save  the  entertainment  of  a  constant  fear 
— a  fear  growing  hourly,  which  ever  took  new 
shapes  and  various  guises,  and  became  so  huge  a 
thing  toward  the  end  that  I  wondered  if  the  qual 
ity  were  part  of  me  or  I  of  it.  We  all  shared 
the  sensation,  although  it  is  not  a  condition  that 
actors  talk  about — this  terror  of  the  first  night — 
excepting,  of  course,  Frederica.  Never  having 
felt  it,  she  was  heard  analyzing  her  quakings 
early  in  the  game,  even  to  the  telling  of  her 

85 


THE    ACTRESS 

new  relations  when  they  met  her  at  the  boat 
train. 

The  relatives,  who  were  English,  did  their 
best  to  calm  her,  principally  that  she  might  aid 
them  in  picking  out  her  luggage.  This  she 
finally  did,  making  an  excellent  first  choice, 
and  it  was  only  by  the  greatest  firmness  that  I 
induced  her  to  give  up  my  large  trunk,  which 
she  had  annexed  because  it  looked  familiar. 

Mr.  Benny  didn't  seem  to  get  beyond  staring 
at  the  cabs  which  were  drawn  up  along  the  sta 
tion  platform.  "I'd  'a'  known  it  was  London 
anywhere,"  he  announced  to  me,  delightedly; 
"hansoms  all  over  the  place.  Imagine  London 
being  what  I  thought  it  was  going  to  be!"  And 
I  knew  the  city  had  a  strong  convert  from  that 
time  on. 

The  Farquhars  and  I  were  going  to  a  hotel 
near  the  theatre,  while  the  L.  L.  and  Larry 
went  to  a  fashionable  hostelry  that  they  might 
make  a  good  beginning,  though  whom  they  were 
to  impress  I  am  not  yet  sure.  They  had  started 
off  with  their  luggage  on  one  four-wheeler,  and 
they  themselves  in  a  hansom;  but  Bella  be 
came  imbued  with  the  idea  that  this  might 
not  "look  right" — presumably  to  the  porters 
— and  after  much  rearrangement  of  luggage 


THE    ACTRESS 

they  began  all  over  again,  each  one  in  different 
cabs. 

I  leaned  over  the  hansom  doors  as  I  followed 
the  Farquhars,  and  peered  through  the  soft  twi 
light  at  the  faces  of  those  about  me.  I  had  seen 
them  on  my  holiday  trips  before,  but  now  they 
took  on  a  new  aspect.  I  was  looking  at  our 
public.  The  cyclist,  keen,  alert,  who  slipped 
before,  behind,  and  around  the  cab,  would  be 
of  our  gallery.  The  girl  with  a  bag  of  books 
climbing  to  the  top  of  a  'bus  would  patronize 
the  pit;  inside  the  'bus  were  the  dull-looking 
but  respectable  matrons  and  their  husbands 
who  would  occupy  the  upper  circle.  The  be- 
pompadoured  patrons  of  the  taximeter  cabs 
flashing  by  my  slower  vehicle  would  fill  the 
dress-circle;  while  the  well-dressed  women,  their 
gleaming  shoulders  half  concealed  by  gorgeous 
coats,  who  sat  far  back  in  their  broughams, 
would  be  the  sophisticated  patrons  of  the  stalls 
and  boxes. 

A  little  rivulet  of  fear  crept  down  my  spine. 
Would  they  be  kind  to  us  ?  When  one  sweeps 
the  London  streets  with  a  glance,  how  little 
mirth  is  found  among  the  passers-by.  They 
are  not  a  people  who  go  about  gladly,  and  yet 
at  the  next  corner  there  may  be  a  clash  of  wits 

8? 


THE    ACTRESS 

between  the  drivers  of  a  'bus  and  cab  that  causes 
the  American  to  "  sit  up,"  surprised  at  the  quick 
retorts.  England  laughs  when  it  is  provoked 
to  humor — could  we  provoke  them  with  this 
play  of  ours  ? 

Sometimes  during  those  few  days,  when  the 
sun  came  out  from  behind  the  clouds  and  the 
Thames  looked  almost  blue,  when  the  smell  of 
the  fresh  earth  of  the  Embankment  gardens 
reached  our  nostrils  and  the  flowers  which  both 
nations  love  touched  our  hearts — at  those  times 
we  felt  we  could  not  go  wrong.  Then  we  would 
go  up  a  narrow  street  to  the  cold,  bare  stage, 
and  there  shout  lines  into  an  empty  amphi 
theatre  that  had  a  fearful  echoing  way  of  throw 
ing  back  our  inanities  into  our  teeth,  and  as 
each  act  ended  we  would  walk  silently  to  the 
wings  and  ask  ourselves:  "Why,  oh!  why,  had 
we  not  remained  'a  acrobat*  ?" 

When  the  gloomy  conditions  became  over 
powering,  I  would  go  out  and  gaze  at  the  gleam 
ing  medals  of  the  stage  door-keeper.  He  had 
been  a  beautiful  surprise  on  the  day  of  our  first 
rehearsal.  Standing  in  his  black,  gold-braided 
uniform,  with  a  patent-leather  wallet  slung  over 
his  shoulders  and  his  chest  displaying  a  row  of 
honors  on  parti-colored  ribbons,  I  had  thought 


THE    ACTRESS 

he  was  nothing  less  than  an  emissary  of  the  King 
come  to  welcome  us.  More  than  that,  he  was 
smiling,  which  was  almost  unprecedented;  but 
since  he  offered  me  my  letters  while  firmly  re 
fusing  to  grasp  my  proffered  hand,  his  position 
was  forced  upon  me.  Later  I  learned  that  these 
commissionnaires,  as  they  are  called,  are  made 
up  of  discharged  soldiers  who  have  fulfilled  their 
time,  but  are  still  active  old  fellows  and  willing 
ones.  So  they  serve  as  porters  in  most  of  the 
public  buildings  and  theatres,  and  though  fre 
quently  shy  a  finger  or  two,  and  sometimes  a 
bit  lame,  I  would  prefer  them  to  the  horse- 
guards  any  day. 

Inside  the  theatre  there  were  no  more  medals, 
but  the  same  amount  of  respect  and  much  cap- 
lifting.  I  doubt  if  any  stage-hand  there  felt 
himself  superior  to  the  actor.  On  the  day  of 
the  first  rehearsal  I  found  Mr.  Benny  sitting 
uncomfortably  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  and  look 
ing  a  little  homesick. 

o 

"If  one  of  those  fellows  'd  just  come  up  and 
tell  me  I  was  blocking  his  way,  and  to  get  out,  I 
think  I'd  feel  more  at  home.  I'm  afraid  to  go 
to  the  dressing-room;  there's  a  boy  down  there 
says  he's  goin'  to  dress  me.  I  told  him  I  didn't 
have  but  one  change,  and  hardly  cared  to  spend 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  money;  but  he's  set  as  a  rock,  says  he's  goin' 
to  do  it  anyway,  that  the  management  pays 
him.  Of  course,  that's  nice  of  the  management; 
but  I'm  not  like  Farquhar  and  Chester  and 
those  English  fellahs,  who  always  have  men 
around  to  tie  their  cravats.  No  one's  ever 
dressed  me  since  mother  gave  it  up,  and  while 
I'm  old,  I  ain't  in  my  second  childhood  yet." 

"  It  will  be  awfully  nice  for  you,  Mr.  Benny," 
I  consoled;  "he  will  look  after  your  clothes  if 
you  give  him  a  half-crown  tip  weekly,  and  that 
will  allow  you  more  time  to  see  the  city." 

"Look  after  my  clothes!"  cried  Mr.  Benny, 
more  disturbed  than  ever.  "Now,  I  suppose  I'll 
have  to  buy  a  lot  of  suits  so  as  to  give  that  fellah 
somethin'  to  do.  I  was  thinkin',"  he  added,  in 
a  lower  voice,  "of  gettin'  some  of  that  colored 
underwear.  I  never  cared  much  about  my 
looks  before,  but  I  don't  want  him  to  think 
America's  on  the  cheap." 

"You  must  do  exactly  what  you  please,  re 
gardless  of  him,"  I  urged;  "he  would  despise 
you  if  you  did  anything  else,  and  he  will  admire 
you  most  of  all  when  you  stay  just  yourself." 
I  found  it  difficult  to  explain  social  conditions 
to  as  simple  a  soul  as  Mr.  Benny. 

"Well,"  he  concluded,  as  though  trying  to 
90 


THE    ACTRESS 

extract  some  comfort  from  the  situation,  "I 
suppose  he  will  be  company  for  me  during  my 
long  wait,  and  I'd  like  to  buy  the  underwear, 
anyway,  if  you'll  go  out  with  me  and  see  I  don't 
get  cheated.  I  can't  tell  the  difference  between 
their  fifty-cent  piece  and  their  sixty-two-cent 
piece,  and  there's  no  use  in  my  trying." 

I  went  on  to  my  room,  which  was  next  to 
Bella's  and  across  from  Bruce  Farquhar's.  They 
were  only  a  few  steps  below  the  stage;  the  oth 
ers  dressed  farther  down  yet;  and  as  the  stage 
itself  was  below  the  level  of  the  street,  after  the 
manner  of  English  theatres,  the  rest  of  the  com 
pany  led  a  most  molelike  existence. 

Larry  Chester  was  to  have  dressed  with 
Bruce — at  least,  the  English  stage-manager  had 
assigned  the  two  to  one  room,  as  there  was  very 
little  space;  but  Bruce  wouldn't  permit  this. 
He  wasn't  at  all  undignified  in  his  objection, 
and  was  most  friendly  to  Larry,  and  I  wondered 
why  my  blood  ran  cold  when  I  heard  his  protest, 
which  any  actor  would  uphold. 

"You'll  have  your  day,  too,  old  man,"  he  said 
to  young  Mr.  Chester,  after  his  objections  had 
been  sustained,  and  Larry  was  preparing  to 
continue  his  burrowing.  "As  leading  man  of 
this  company,  you  know  I  really  am  entitled  to 

9* 


THE    ACTRESS 

a  room  alone.  If  I  expect  to  command  any 
respect  at  all,  I  must  make  a  stand,  you  know; 
I  really  must." 

I  was  deliberately  listening  to  them  through 
the  partition,  as  Bella  undoubtedly  was  through 
hers.  Yet  I  was  glad  she  was  not  with  me,  for  I 
found  my  eyes  wandering  in  a  shamed  way  around 
the  room;  and  even  while  I  sternly  reminded  my 
self  that  Bruce's  contention  was  right,  according 
to  all  ethics  of  the  stage,  I  kept  thinking,  for  the 
first  time,  what  a  foolish  way  this  was  to  com 
mand  the  esteem  of  his  fellow- creatures  while 
his  wife  dressed  far  down  below  with  a  lot  of 
girls.  And  it  occurred  to  me  that  Aaron — but 
this  thought  grew  no  larger,  for  I  became  very 
fiery  with  myself,  and  walked  about  the  room 
sneering  at  my  mean  desertion,  even  in  spirit, 
from  the  viewpoint  of  my  comrades.  And  more 
than  rebellious,  I  was  frightened  —  frightened 
in  the  thought  that  I  could  find  any  flaw  in 
the  stage  fabric  that  was  so  closely  woven 
about  me. 

Bella  came  creeping  to  my  room.  "He's 
right,"  she  whispered. 

"I  know  he's  right,"  I  snapped,  as  though 
Bella  had  been  disputing  me.  She  looked 
alarmed.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  I  went 

92 


THE    ACTRESS 

on,  "  if  a  head  clerk  in  an  office  was  put  at  a  bad 
desk  that  he  wouldn't  fight  ?" 

"To  be  sure,"  assented  Bella.  "That's  the 
only  way  a  man  could  maintain  his  self-respect 
—to  sit  at  the  best  desk." 

Then  I  hated  Bella  for  making  it  so  plain 
that  it  was  no  way  at  all. 

As  for  Larry,  he  said  he  didn't  care  a  "whoop 
in  Hades"  where  he  dressed,  only  he  was  sorry 
that  he  would  have  to  leave  us  girls — this  last 
in  a  loud  tone,  because  he  knew  that  we  were 
listening. 

"Why,  loaf  here,  of  course,"  invited  Bruce; 
"make  it  your  headquarters." 

"So  long  as  the  grease  paint's  on  my  face  and 
not  on  the  table,  it's  all  right  ?"  laughed  the  boy. 

"Sure  thing,"  corroborated  our  leading  man; 
but  I  scored  one  for  Larry. 

When  this  incident  was  closed  I  turned  idly 
to  less  real  things,  which  were  my  letters.  There 
was  a  fire  in  the  open  grate  of  my  room,  and  a 
pleasant-faced  young  woman  was  tacking  fresh 
ly  washed  hangings  to  the  dressing-table.  She 
paused  as  I  turned  to  her,  and  removed  the 
tacks  from  her  mouth. 

"This  ain't  my  plyce,  miss — to  tack  curtings, 
I  mean  to  s'y;  but  the  'ousekeeper  is  that  slow, 

93 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  I  wanted  the  room  tidy.     Ameliar  is  my 
nyme,  miss;   I'm  the  second  dresser." 

Now,  Amelia  did  not  say  "  plyce,"  nor  yet 
"s'y,"  nor  "nyme,"  but  neither  did  she  say 
place,  say,  or  name;  and  the  writer,  capable  of 
putting  into  words  the  dialect  of  a  Londoner  who 
is  not  a  Cockney,  but  very  near  it,  ought  to  be 
able  to  spell  correctly  the  gurgles  of  a  baby. 
As  most  of  the  women  of  the  stage  feel  toward 
those  who  serve  them,  I  found  myself  immedi 
ately  becoming  attached  to  Amelia.  She  had 
a  masterful  way  with  her — or  is  it  a  yielding  way 
with  us?  —  which  suggested  a  proud  responsi 
bility  and  an  eagerness  to  share  my  troubles  if 
not  my  triumphs. 

"Letters  from  'ome,  miss,"  she  said,  pushing 
a  chair  toward  the  fire.  She  would  not  have 
dared  a  question.  This  was  a  pleased  asser 
tion. 

"Hardly,  I  think,"  I  answered,  running  over 
the  advertisements  with  the  English  stamp  in 
the  corner;  and  then,  as  my  eye  fell  upon  our 
dear  Lincoln's  homely  blue  face,  "Why,  yes 
there  is,  too." 

"  Two,  miss  ?"  repeated  Amelia.  "  There's 
always  sure  to  be  one." 

I  didn't  explain  to  Amelia,  but  ran  my  thumb 
94 


THE    ACTRESS 

hurriedly  under  the  flap  of  the  envelope  and 
opened  Aaron's  letter.  I  was  glad  to  get  it, 
yet  felt  a  little  guilty,  for,  since  reaching  Lon 
don,  he  had  not  been  greatly  in  my  mind— 
"crowded  out  for  want  of  space,"  as  the  papers 
would  say;  and,  strangely  enough,  Aaron  knew 
that  this  would  happen.  He  wrote: 

"There  will  be  times  when  London  will  engulf  you, 
just  as  there  are  moments,  hours,  dear,  when  you  are 
not  on  the  exchange  with  me.  There  will  be  times 
when  a  laugh  from  that  brute  thing,  your  audience, 
will  fill  your  heart;  but  it  isn't  there  to  stay  any  more 
than  will  the  stock  quotations  which  set  mine  beat 
ing  serve  to  warm  my  being  when  the  day  is  over 
and  I  am  alone.  Don't  match  me  against  the  charm 
of  that  great  gray  town;  don't  you  dare  to  contrast 
me  with  a  mob  of  men  and  women  grinning  at  your 
antics.  Give  them  their  place  and  give  me  mine. 
I'm  not  a  vast  population  nor  a  tribute  to  your  talent. 
I'm  just  a  man  who  has  pressed  his  lips  against  yours 
and  felt  yours  pressing  mine — yes,  pressing  mine.  I 
didn't  intend  to  write  this,  but  it  has  been  torn  out 
with  my  sincerity.  Great  heavens,  girl,  can  you  give 
all  you  gave  in  that  wonderful  admission,  and  then 
go  on  with  your  'pretends'  and  not  feel  the  emptiness 
of  them  ?  Oh,  if  you  were  here  now  to  look  into  my 
eyes,  with  your  face  between  my  hands,  so  that  you 
could  not  dodge  the  question!  You  darling,  slippery 

95 


THE    ACTRESS 

little  eel,  why  did  I  let  you  go  a-swimming  off!  I  sup 
pose  you  thought  it  was  the  end — that  the  broad  At 
lantic  cut  the  cord.  Why,  I'm  writing  this  three  hours 
before  your  anchor  is  up,  and  I'm  going  to  write 
others.  Wouldn't  you  hate  me  if  I  didn't  ?  Would 
it  be  fair  to  half  wake  you  up  and  let  you  go  back  to 
your  torpor  ?  No,  Rhoda,  my  love,  I  sought  that  kiss, 
I  demanded  it  of  you,  perhaps,  but  in  the  end  you 
gave  it.  That  much  of  your  gentle  little  self  you 
gave  to  me;  but  I'm  like  the  ogre,  I  want  more,  I 
want  all  of  you.  I  want  you  behind  my  coffee-urn 
in  the  morning,  and  about  my  house  during  the  day, 
and  in  the  hollow  of  my  arm  all  through  the  night. 

"Have  I  said  too  much,  dear?  Forgive  me.  When 
I  think  that  a  word  of  mine  could  smash  a  business 
firm,  and  yet  a  whole  volley  of  them  leaves  you  un 
disturbed,  I  crave  for  violent  expression.  Child,  child, 
wear  your  furs  close  about  your  white  throat,  and  keep 
fires  going  all  the  time.  An  English  spring  is  as  deli 
cate,  yet  as  cruel,  as — as  my  Rhoda. 

"AARON." 

I  sat  up  in  my  arm-chair  with  the  blood  pour 
ing  over  my  face.  I  wanted  to  cry,  I  wanted  to 
scream,  I  wanted  to  kick  out  with  my  feet  as 
I'd  seen  children  do.  How  dared  he  write  that 
I  had  kissed  him!  What  lack  of  fine  feeling! 
How  cowardly!  Besides,  I  hadn't!  And  if  I 
had,  what  then  ?  It  would  only  have  been 

96 


THE    ACTRESS 

common  politeness,  common  courtesy,  like — 
well,  like  returning  a  call.  It  was  a  pour  pren- 
dre  conge,  mere  form,  which  one  initials  on  the 
corner  of  one's  visiting  card. 

Besides,  I  was  over  here  now  and  it  was 
finished,  and  we  were  all  up  to  our  ears  in  as 
wild  a  gamble  as  Aaron  had  ever  known.  Yes, 
and  I  was  happy.  Men  on  "change"  are  not 
the  only  ones  who  feel  the  stimulus  of  a  big 
risk.  At  least  they  have  nothing  to  lose  but 
money.  They  do  not  have  to  stand  for  three 
hours  before  a  body  of  men  and  women  to  be 
judged  critically  of  their  appearance,  their 
manner  of  delivery,  their  personal  appeal,  and 
their  ability  to  act — according  to  each  auditor's 
standard — nor  do  they  have  to  realize,  as  the 
actors  do  when  they  go  through  this  ordeal, 
that  their  bread-and-butter  depends  upon  the 
passing  of  these  tests.  And  yet,  like  the  finan 
cier  who  scents  a  contest,  we  derive  a  certain 
fearful  joy  in  this  strain  that  is  put  upon  us. 
We  do  not  know  it  at  the  time,  and  we  never 
admit  it  unless  a  letter  like  Aaron's  drags  it  out; 
but,  as  I  believe  I  have  said  before,  any  kind  of 
keen  emotion,  even  a  miserable  one,  is  a  pleasur 
able  sensation  to  the  actor. 

So  "I  am  perfectly  happy,"  I  announced 
97 


THE    ACTRESS 

once  more,  and  it  must  have  been  aloud,  for 
Amelia  stopped  her  hammering  and  said  that 
she  was  very  glad,  but  that  as  I  had  been  called 
twice  she  thought  I  ought  to  go  "hup."  After 
hesitating  a  moment  whether  or  not  to  put  my 
letter  in  the  fire  or  in  my  shirt-waist,  I  decided 
on  my  shirt-waist  and  went  "hup,"  but  I  kept 
my  eyes  averted  from  the  others. 

This  was  the  last  before  the  dress  rehearsal. 
The  scenes  had  been  set  up  that  we  might  ac 
custom  ourselves  to  the  exits,  and  not,  turning 
suddenly,  find  ourselves  facing  a  blank  wall, 
instead  of  the  door  we  had  intended  to  sweep 
haughtily  through.  The  properties  had  been 
in  use  for  some  time,  and  a  few  of  the  men  were 
wearing  their  gun  belts  and  "chaps,"  and  the 
women  their  large  hats  to  see  if  they  could 
manage  them. 

The  stage-manager  sat  in  the  balcony,  and 
talked  easily  to  us  through  a  megaphone  when 
he  wished  to  make  a  correction.  On  either  side 
of  him  sat  the  English  manager  and  Junius 
Cutting,  and  whenever  an  American  expression 
was  used  that  the  Englishman  could  not  catch, 
we  were  halted,  and  sometimes  another  phrase 
was  substituted  by  appealing  to  the  playwright. 
He  was  a  nervous  little  fellow — Hallam — and 


THE    ACTRESS 

he  would  get  into  a  great  stew  if  a  line  had  to 
be  changed. 

"You  know,"  he  would  call  out,  "I  wrote 
this  play  for  humanity  at  large,  not  for  a  small 
section  of  an  insular  public." 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Hallam,"  Mr.  Cutting's 
voice  would  come  back  from  out  the  blackness, 
"but  it's  a  small  section  you're  playing  to  right 
now." 

Then  Hallam  would  think  of  another  line, 
and  he  and  the  actor  who  would  have  to  "muti 
late  his  speech"  would  go  off  into  a  corner 
afterward  and  mourn  for  the  lost  "atmos 
phere."  Everything  is  atmosphere  on  the 
stage  that  isn't  temperament.  He  was  a  nice 
little  playwright,  Mr.  Hallam,  and,  unlike  most 
of  them,  regarded  his  stage  -  manager  as  his 
natural  enemy,  which  was  a  bond  of  sympathy 
between  us  and  him.  He  was  too  nervous  to 
put  on  his  own  plays,  but  he  was  always  pres 
ent,  and  he  had  a  way  of  saying  as  we  would 
come  off  a  scene,  "Splendid,  perfectly  splen 
did,  but—  And  then  he  would  go  on  to  tear 
us  politely  to  pieces. 

He  had  the  wisdom,  however,  of  a  man  who 
had  produced  many  times — and  the  tolerance. 
If  he  found  an  actor  substituting  one  word  for 

99 


THE    ACTRESS 

another,  and  that  word  was  better  than  his,  he 
made  no  comment,  but  would  go  quietly  over 
to  the  assistant  stage-manager,  who  held  the 
script,  and  write  in  the  change.  Sometimes  an 
aside,  invented  by  the  player,  and  half  uttered 
to  carry  him  off  the  stage,  has  been  caught  by 
the  audience  who  have  encouraged  him  with  a 
chuckle,  until  the  line  became  established  and 
one  of  the  laughs  of  the  piece.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  Mr.  Hallam  thought  the  word  which 
the  actor  substituted  not  so  good  he  would  say, 
casually,  "That's  not  quite  the  line,  is  it?" 
and  the  head  stage-manager,  walking  up  and 
down  the  aisle,  would  growl,  "Watch  your 
script,"  whereat  the  meek  assistant  would  read 
out  the  right  words,  and  the  artist  would  know 
that  he  was  vanquished. 

These  changes  continued  up  to  the  night  of 
the  dress  rehearsal,  until  Mr.  Benny  said  he 
"didn't  know  whether  he  was  an  English  dude 
or  a  member  of  a  Bible  class."  His  strong 
Western  dialect,  with  the  drawl  of  the  Tennes 
see  mountain  man,  had  also  to  be  modified  for 
London  ears,  and  this  he  submitted  to;  but 
when  they  came  to  divest  him  of  his  garments, 
declaring  them  to  be  unsuitable,  Mr.  Benny's 
little  spine  bristled  in  rebellion.  "There's 
100 


THE    ACTRESS 

nothing  left  of  this  character  now  but  the 
pants,"  I  heard  him  expostulate,  "and  I'll  be 
dog-goned  if  I  give  'em  up."  And  he  didn't. 

I  was  a  half-breed  squaw  in  the  play — very 
modern  as  to  dress,  however — and  the  difficul 
ty  of  getting  my  heavy  gutturals  over  the  foot 
lights  was  taking  the  flesh  off  of  me  at  a  pound 
a  day.  Would  they  hear  me,  and,  if  they  did 
so,  would  they  understand  ?  was  my  constant 
inward  cry.  At  least  I  was  absorbed  in  this 
dreadful  occupation.  I  remember  being  vague 
ly  conscious  of  the  fact  that  I  had  thought  of  my 
part  before  I  thought  of  Aaron  Adams  when  I 
awoke  the  morning — the  noon  rather — of  the 
dread  day. 

We  are  always  glad  to  have  a  long  dress  re 
hearsal  lasting  into  the  morning,  as  they  gener 
ally  do,  on  the  night  before  an  opening.  Then 
we  can  sleep  late  into  the  day  and  have  but 
fewer  hours  to  suffer  before  theatre  time. 
Possibly,  thinking  of  Aaron  would  have  been 
pleasanter.  I  awoke  conscious  of  a  misery  that 
at  first  I  could  not  define.  What  was  this 
weight  upon  me  ?  Could  it  be  the  lobster  of 
last  night's  supper  ?  No,  I  was  in  London. 
In  London  ?  Then  it  was  the  play.  The  play, 
of  course!  This  was  the  night,  and  yet,  not  yet 
101 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  night,  for  hours  were  to  be  dragged  through. 
I  felt  for  my  watch,  hoping  that  I  had  slept  late, 
but  it  was  only  twelve.  How  cruel  this  was,  I 
railed,  since  I  had  not  closed  my  eyes  until  six. 
I  lay  back  and  tried  to  compose  myself  for  sleep, 
but  found  myself  going  over  and  over  my  part, 
marking  where  the  laughs  ought  to  be,  and  then 
shrieking  at  myself  in  derision  that  I  should 
count  on  laughs,  when  I  would  do  well  to  escape 
the  hissing  of  the  house. 

The  hissing!  The  word  lifted  me  up  with  my 
hands  to  my  temples.  Well,  why  not  ?  I  had 
heard  that  in  England  what  they  did  not  com 
prehend,  they  resented.  Why  should  they  not 
hiss  a  half-breed  in  fantastic  garments  with  an 
Indianized,  Americanized,  Anglicized  dialect  ? 
Who  could  blame  them  ?  But  oh,  the  cruelty 
of  hissing  a  human  being  doing  her  best!  In 
spite  of  the  poor  esteem  in  which  our  calling  is 
held  at  home,  we  do  not  have  this  token  of  dis 
favor  thrust  upon  us. 

In  an  hour  I  had  breakfasted  and  was  dressed. 
I  had  tried  to  spend  time  on  my  nails,  but  the  file 
grated  on  me.  I  had  tried  to  while  away  some 
extra  minutes  in  doing  my  hair  elaborately,  but 
the  lifting  of  my  hands  above  my  head  became 
intolerable.  The  breakfast  was  sent  away  with 

102 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  egg-shells  only  crushed;  at  this  stage  I  could 
not  struggle  with  a  small  spoon  and  an  English 
egg-cup.  In  the  hotel  corridor  I  met  Bruce 
Farquhar's  wife.  There  was  no  exchange  of 
salutations. 

"Bruce  has  gone  out,  too,"  she  began.  "I 
wanted  to  go  with  him,  but  he  said  he  want 
ed  to  walk  rapidly.  Besides,  I've  just  a  line 
or  two,  so  of  course  I  don't  feel  quite  so  nerv 
ous." 

I  knew  that  she  was  doubly  fearful,  for  her 
sweet  self  and  him,  and  I  asked  her  to  come 
with  me,  but  she  said  it  would  be  better  if  I 
didn't  talk  in  the  raw  air,  so  I  went  on.  Larry 
Chester  was  not  as  thoughtful,  however.  He 
was  sending  up  his  card  as  I  entered  the  office, 
and  came  toward  me  with  some  of  his  fine  color 
a  little  faded. 

"Hullo!"  he  ejaculated,  elaborately  airy. 
:< Thought  perhaps  you  might  want  to  take  a 
walk,  do  the  British  Museum,  see  the  Zoo,  or— 
or  something." 

"Larry,"  I  interrupted,  "are  you  scared  ?" 

The  boy  looked  at  me  doubtfully,  with  much 
of  his  bravado  gone. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  simply.  "I  never 
felt  like  this  before;  I  seem  to  be  going  down, 

103 


THE    ACTRESS 

forever  going  down  in  an  elevator.  And  I  keep 
yawning  so." 

I  smiled  at  his  description  of  the  first  symp 
toms  of  stage-fright. 

"Say,  Rhoda,"  he  continued,  in  a  lower  tone, 
as  though  in  fear  of  the  truth  getting  abroad, 
"have  you  heard  that  they  'boo!'  ?" 

"They  what?"  I  exclaimed,  knowing  well 
whom  he  meant  by  "they." 

"  Boo !"  he  repeated.  "  He  of  the  medals  told 
me.  He  says  it  doesn't  happen  often  to  the 
actors,  but  when  the  play  is  bad  they  call  out 
the  author,  and  then  they  all  cry,  'Boo!" 

I  leaned  against  the  portals  of  the  hotel  door. 

"But  it  does  happen  sometimes  to  actors!"  I 
breathed. 

He  nodded  his  head.  "So  the  doorman  told 
me.  Of  course  it  won't  happen  to  you.  You're 
all  right,  but  you  know  my  luck  can't  last  for 
ever." 

"Not  happen  to  me!"  I  wailed.  "That's 
just  what  will  happen.  Hisses  and  boos;  oh, 
Heaven  help  me!  Larry,  let's  walk." 

And  walk  we  did,  even  to  the  Zoo,  where  we 
stared  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  monkeys  until 
I  found  one  that  looked  like  me  with  my  half- 
breed  make-up  on.  That  brought  the  whole 
104 


THE    ACTRESS 

miserable  scene  before  me  again,  and  I  induced 
Larry  to  say  "  Boo!"  to  it,  while  I  hissed,  just  to 
see  what  would  happen.  But  nothing  did;  the 
creature  looked  at  me  mournfully,  and  went  on 
devouring  an  apple.  "And,  after  all,"  I  said, 
"there's  nothing  more  can  happen.  They  will 
boo,  and  I  will  look  at  them  and  go  on  with  my 
lines.  It's  something  that  must  be  endured,  an 
experience  I  must  go  through  with,  my  punish 
ment,  perhaps — 

My  voice  choked,  and  I  pulled  up  the  fur 
collar  to  keep  out  the  chill  air,  and  for  just  a 
second  I  saw  myself  before  a  wood  fire  in 
Aaron's  house,  warm  and  sheltered  and  fear 
less.  Then  I  found  Larry  shaking  me  by  the 
shoulders  and  laughing. 

"Cheer  up!  Eleven  o'clock  has  got  to  come; 
it's  early  dinner-time  now.  Say,  don't  you  want 
a  drink  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered;  "nor  must  you  take  a 
drop  until  the  play  is  over.  Don't  muddle  up 
your  brain  and  think  you're  finding  courage. 
You're  going  to  make  a  real  success,  and  I  shall 
be  very  proud  of  you." 

"What  a  dear  girl!"  said  Larry,  slipping  his 
arm  through  mine  and  steering  me  toward  a 
hansom.  "  I  hope  we'll  see  a  lot  of  each  other, 
s  105 


THE    ACTRESS 

you  give  me  such  a  mental  boost.     Now,  that 
girl  at  home— 

I  looked  up  at  him  curiously.  How  over 
powering  is  this  relation  between  man  and  wom 
an — women,  perhaps  I  should  say,  in  Larry's 
case!  In  the  possibilities  of  a  new  conquest 
that  lay  before  him,  he  had  almost  forgotten  the 
few  remaining  hours  of  suffering. 

I  dined  with  the  Farquhars  silently;  we  all 
had  soup,  then  looked  at  a  steak  and  dismissed 
it.  It  was  still  broad  day  when  we  approached 
the  theatre,  but  already  there  were  two  solid 
lines  of  men  and  women  winding  down  the  street 
forming  the  gallery  and  pit  queues.  They  had 
begun  to  line  up  six  hours  before,  Bruce  told  us; 
it  had  been  drizzling  all  day,  and  yet  they  stood 
ungrumblingly — the  British  public  exemplified 
in  the  patience  of  the  London  first-nighter. 
I  gazed  at  them  beseechingly  from  under  my 
big  hat.  These  were  the  hissers,  the  booers, 
looking  just  like  men  and  women  whose  vo 
cabulary  did  not  include  strange,  terrifying 
noises. 

"There    goes    the    leading    lady,"    one  girl 
whispered    to   another.     And    I   wished    for   a 
moment  that  I  could  have  been,  for  Bella's 
beauty  would  be  an  effective  plea  for  favor. 
1 06 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  envied  the  street  tumbler  who  was  throwing 
himself  about  the  pavement  to  amuse  the  wait 
ing  queue.  They  had  no  thought  of  booing 
him.  He  was  one  of  them;  at  least,  they  un 
derstood  his  queer  contortions.  Some  of  them 
tossed  him  ha'pennies  when  he  passed  his  hat; 
many  did  not  even  look  up  from  the  novels  they 
were  reading.  Two  messenger  boys  who  were 
at  the  head  of  the  line,  paid  by  the  hour  to  hold 
their  places  until  the  patrons  came  along,  were 
in  tremendous  disfavor.  They  were  freely  com 
mented  upon,  and  it  was  evident  from  /the 
wagging  heads  of  the  gray  -  bearded  first- 
nighters  that  the  old  pit  wasn't  what  it  used 
to  be. 

An  hour  later  I  was  made  up  and  dressed. 
There  were  flowers  in  the  room  with  little 
American  flags  pinned  to  them,  an  offering  from 
the  English  side  of  the  management  —  fancy 
Junius  Cutting — what  ?  There  were  telegrams 
and  notes  from  chance  friends  in  town,  and 
there  was  a  cable  from  the  company  I  had  left 
behind.  The  others  had  their  share,  too,  and 
the  old  commissionnaire  came  and  went  with  the 
messages,  passing  them  in  with  cold  hands  to 
be  received  by  the  dressers'  equally  icy  fingers, 
and  in  turn  placed  in  our  nervous,  trembling 
107 


THE    ACTRESS 

grasp;  for  the  fear  of  a  "  first  night "  was  over 
all  the  theatre. 

The  dressing-rooms  were  very  quiet,  and  there 
was  a  desperate  calm  in  the  air.  Occasionally  one 
of  the  company  tapped  at  my  door,  and  we  ex 
changed  a  word  or  two;  but  there  was  no  specula 
tion  as  to  the  success  or  failure  of  the  piece — we 
were  past  that.  Frederica,  as  the  head  of  the 
dance-hall  girls,  flew  in  with  the  information  that 
she  had  been  to  two  teas  that  afternoon,  but  was 
so  nervous  all  the  time  that  she  couldn't  talk- 
much.  And  Bella  called  me  in  to  ask  solemnly 
if  I  thought  it  too  late  for  her  to  rise  from  the 
log  for  her  good  lines.  Mindful  of  Bruce 
Farquhar's  consternation  at  seeing  her  walk 
ing  about  in  this  new  fashion,  I  told  her  that 
she  would  probably  be  booed  if  she  moved 
an  inch,  and  this  threat  seemed  to  be  suffi 
cient. 

Made  up,  as  we  all  were,  much  too  soon,  we 
found  ourselves  waiting  on  the  stage  before  the 
call-boy  had  aired  his  healthy  lungs.  The 
playwright  was  there,  going  quietly  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  assuring  us  that  our  inter 
pretations  of  the  parts  were  all  that  could  be 
wished.  Each  player's  eye  brightened  with 
delight  by  this  diplomatic  stroke,  and  every 
108 


THE    ACTRESS 

performance  was  bettered  by  the  kindly  act. 
There  was  some  feeble  attempt  at  persiflage 
among  ourselves,  but  no  one  listened  to  the 
other,  and  then — and  then  out  of  the  silence 
there  came  a  burst  of  chords  that  cut  short  words 
and  breath,  a  roll  of  the  drum,  a  clash  of 
cymbals,  and  "Overture  and  beginners,  please!" 
shrilled  the  English  call-boy. 

This  is  the  most  dreadful  moment  of  a  pre 
miere.  There  is  no  going  back  when  the  orches 
tra  crashes,  and  unprotesting  we  gripped  hands 
with  each  other.  "Good  luck! — good  luck!— 
good  luck!"  ran  from  mouth  to  mouth  as  we 
turned  to  our  various  entrances.  The  asbestos 
curtain  was  raised,  and  the  hum  of  humanity 
penetrated  to  us  from  above  the  music.  The 
sound  heartened  us.  They  were  not  beasts, 
they  were  beings  like  ourselves.  The  band  broke 
into  "  Dixie,"  and  there  was  a  clapping  of  hands. 
The  color  pumped  up  into  our  faces — friends 
were  in  front  who  knew  our  music  and  loved  it, 
and  perhaps  would  love  us.  Perhaps,  after  all 
— then  the  air  died  down,  the  lights  were  lower 
ed,  and  as  the  curtain  was  slowly  raised  on  a 
forest  of  red  woods  there  was  a  murmur  and  a 
welling  up  of  applause. 

"Knew  that  scene  'd  get  a  hand,"  said  our 
109 


THE    ACTRESS 

American  stage-carpenter,  deeply  pleased  with 
his  handiwork. 

In  my  ridiculous  finery  I  leaned  against  the 
back  of  a  set  rock  as  I  waited  for  my  entrance, 
and  breathed  a  silent  prayer  to  whatever  god 
adjusts  these  matters.  "Just  let  me  speak  my 
lines;  I  don't  ask  for  success,  I  don't  need  to 
make  a  hit.  Just  let  me  speak  my  lines,  and,  if 
it  can  be  fixed,  don't  let  them  boo  me." 

A  voice  whispered  at  my  elbow:  "It's  a  cable, 
miss,  if  you  have  the  time.  Maybe  it's  luck." 

Mechanically  I  tore  it  open,  and  read  the 
contents  by  the  amber-colored  sunset: 

"  Whatever  makes  you  happiest,  that  is  my  wish 
for  you  to-night.  AARON." 

I  read  it  without  emotion,  then  crumpled  it  up 
with  a  sudden  indrawing  of  the  breath  and 
stiffening  of  the  muscles,  and  threw  it  into  a 
corner  of  the  stage,  a  thing  valueless  to  me,  for, 
high  up  on  the  piccolo  sounded  the  clear  notes 
of  burlesque  Indian  music. 

There  were  no  Aarons  in  the  universe — that 
music  was  my  cue. 


VI 


TARRY  CHESTER  said  at  supper  when  the 
I—/  night  was  over  that  the  minute  he  heard 
my  voice  he  knew  I  wasn't  frightened,  and  that 
our  scene  would  go  all  right— Larry  was  not 
relying  entirely  on  his  luck  when  the  moment 
came — and  Bruce  Farquhar  smiled  at  the  boy's 
speech,  for  he  knew  that  the  first  thing  a  player 
must  learn  is  the  control  of  the  vocal  chords. 
The  heart  may  be  in  a  tumult  and  the  head  in 
a  whirl,  but  the  throat  must  be  a  passive  in 
strument  as  foreign  to  the  being  as  is  the  cornet 
to  the  musician,  which  is  a  dead  thing  without 
the  performer's  inspiring  breath. 

The  audience  had  been  chuckling  a  little 
through  the  first  lines  of  the  play  as  the  ten 
derfoot,  Larry,  endeavored  to  saw  his  stint 
of  wood,  but  it  quieted  instantly  as  my  song 
started  off  the  stage.  It  was  a  backwoods 
gospel  hymn,  for  I  had  been  converted  by  the 
missionary  and  had  been  bedecked  by  her  in 
various  odd  garments.  At  the  last  words  I 
in 


THE    ACTRESS 

trailed  into  view,  and  stood  at  the  back  for  an 
instant  waiting  for  the  laugh  that  the  author 
counted  on.  It  did  not  come.  I  started  down 
stage,  for  I  was  not  to  speak  until  I  had  reached 
the  boy.  I  was  alarmed  at  losing  the  laugh, 
but  at  least  no  one  had  booed.  Now,  as  I 
stepped  into  the  radius  of  the  footlights,  there 
was  a  murmur  in  the  stalls  that  was  caught  up 
by  the  pit,  swelled  to  the  balconies,  increased 
in  power  as  the  whole  house  took  it  up,  and 
continued  until  the  laugh  broke  into  hand-clap 
ping.  Even  so  had  it  been  at  my  temperance 
revival,  only  they  were  twice  as  long  discovering 
that  they  were  amused  as  they  would  have  been 
at  home;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  laugh  con 
tinued  twice  as  long — which  I  think  is  a  fair  ex 
change. 

"We  must  give  each  other  time  for  the  thought 
to  carry  and  the  laugh  to  come,"  I  warned  in 
my  mind,  even  as  I  was  speaking  lines.  And 
Larry,  who  did  not  quite  understand  my  stub 
born  insistence  on  playing  slowly,  nevertheless, 
with  his  easy  adaptability,  got  into  the  tempo, 
and  our  dreaded  first  scene  went  off  smoothly. 

"One  over,"  I   said,  as  we   made  our  exit. 
Each  line  I  had  been  telling  off  as  a  shipwrecked 
sailor  notches  the  days  on  a  stick. 
112 


THE    ACTRESS 

Larry  wiped  the  streaming  perspiration  from 
his  face,  although  the  stage  was  cold.  "Not 
a  hiss!"  he  ejaculated  "And — listen — they're 
screaming  at  Benny!" 

Delighted,  we  watched  Mr.  Benny's  scene, 
yet  always  alert  for  our  own  cue.  As  the  act 
went  on  we  made  our  exits,  exchanging  little 
nods  with  each  other — of  congratulation  or  re 
lief.  The  end  of  the  act  came,  and  there  were 
two  big  calls  for  the  players  and  another  for 
the  author,  but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  audience 
was  quieted  by  lighting  the  house  and  turning 
down  the  footlights.  The  audience  thought 
they  had  stopped  of  their  own  accord;  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  manager  was  reserving  their 
enthusiasm  for  the  end  of  the  "Big  Act."  It 
is  pleasant  to  play  little  tricks  like  this  on  a 
body  of  people  who  feel  they  have  our  fate  in 
their  hands 

Amelia  met  me  in  the  hall  and  began  to  divest 
me  of  my  clothes  before  the  door  was  shut,  for 
it  was  a  hard  change 

"Yer  mykin'  a  'it,  miss,"  she  whispered. 

"Don't!  don't!"  I  sternly  forbade;  "there  are 
two  more  acts." 

Silently  she  stripped  me  while  I  redid  my 
hair.  The  playwright  called  through  the  doors: 

"3 


THE    ACTRESS 

"All  right,  but  slower,  slower;  let  them  get  it," 
and  the  fireman  swooped  down  upon  him  and 
told  him  he  must  not  smoke.  Up-stairs  on  the 
stage  Junius  Cutting  worked  with  the  crew  to 
set  the  heavy  scenery.  It  is  doubtful  if  an  Eng 
lish  manager  would  do  this  thing;  but  noth 
ing  mattered  in  life  just  then  to  Junius  except 
the  setting  of  that  stage  in  six  minutes.  At  the 
end  of  the  period  Bella  shrieked  for  more  time. 
"My  high  boots  won't  go  on!"  she  sent  word 
by  the  call-boy. 

"Then  let  'er  come  without  her  boots!"  an 
swered  Junius,  savagely.  And  somehow  or 
other  she  got  them  on — as  one  always  does. 

Not  for  one  moment  during  those  three 
hours  did  our  strained  nerves  relax.  Wonderful 
things  happened,  laughs  came  when  no  one 
expected  them,  and  tears  were  shed  over  lines 
to  which  no  one  had  given  much  value — except 
the  author.  Terrible  things  happened.  Larry 
forgot  a  watch  that  was  to  tell  the  hour  of  a 
pistol-shot  heard  off  the  stage.  Bruce  Farquhar, 
seeing  what  the  audience  did  not  (the  boy's  look 
of  terror  as  he  felt  in  his  empty  pocket),  im 
mediately  "faked"  a  watch  in  the  hollow  of 
his  own  hand,  and  from  the  experience  of  an 
old-stager  spoke  the  tenderfoot's  line.  There 

114 


THE    ACTRESS 

was  not  an  exchange  of  a  glance  between  the 
two. 

Later  on  one  of  the  Englishmen  and  Bella  got 
into  a  tangle  with  their  lines  on  which  largely 
hung  the  plot  of  the  play.  They  did  not  hesi 
tate,  but  went  on  speaking  almost  meaningless 
phrases.  The  audience  leaned  forward,  think 
ing  perhaps  they  did  not  catch  the  American 
parlance. 

"Throw  them  the  line,  for  God's  sake!"  im 
plored  the  author  to  the  prompter — the  author 
himself  had  forgotten  it. 

"Not  a  word,"  hissed  Cutting,  "the  audience 
'11  hear.  Let  'em  get  back.  They'll  do  it." 
And  they  did,  going  on  with  the  scene  smoothly; 
but  those  fearful  seconds  make  wrinkles  in  a 
player's  brow  that  never  smooth  out  again. 

The  most  awful  lapse  of  the  evening  was  mine 
—  and  Amelia's;  and  it  came  at  one  of  the 
crucial  moments  of  the  Big  Act,  as  the  plot  was 
reaching  its  climax.  I  had  a  quick  change  off 
the  stage;  that  means  no  time  to  go  to  my  room; 
so  two  folds  of  canvas  were  placed  around  the 
exit,  and  in  such  three-cornered  seclusion  I 
dressed.  As  I  dashed  from  the  stage  I  ripped 
off  my  waist,  and,  throwing  it  to  the  dresser,  who 
was  waiting,  seized  my  other  garment.  But 

"5 


THE    ACTRESS 

just  as  I  was  slipping  into  it  I  discovered  the 
costume  to  be  that  of  the  last  act.  Amelia  had 
become  confused  with  my  many  rags,  and  had 
brought  the  wrong  thing. 

"I'll  get  it,  miss,"  she  whispered;  then  flew, 
before  I  could  expostulate,  with  both  my  cos 
tumes  in  her  arms.  I  listened  to  the  lines  on 
the  stage,  and,  to  my  horror,  found  that  the 
scene  was  playing  much  more  quickly  than  it 
had  rehearsed.  This  sometimes  happens,  and 
often  the  other  way  round.  The  half-breed,  as 
emissary  from  her  old  tribe,  must  bring  a  mes 
sage  to  the  young  hero,  and  there  was  the  half- 
breed  clad  in  an  old  skirt,  with  towels  folded 
about  her  waist,  to  make  her  flat,  as  her  only 
corsage.  In  desperation  I  fled  from  my  little 
room  to  the  more  open  space  behind  the  scenes, 
and  in  the  next  instant  an  astonished  stage-hand 
had  been  divested  of  his  coat  by  a  lady  who 
needed  it  very  much,  and  at  the  cue  Bruce  gave 
me  I  made  my  entrance  with  the  missive  in 
my  hands. 

There  was  a  ripple  of  amusement  through 
the  audience;  but  the  scene  was  serious,  and 
they  accepted  the  garment  as  one  of  the  vagaries 
of  a  converted  squaw.  The  actors,  of  course, 
were  undisturbed.  The  action  went  on  swiftly 
116 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  more  swiftly,  the  comic  characters  gave 
place  to  the  serious  members,  and  were  wisely 
taken  off  the  stage,  and  the  climax  was  reached 
after  the  element  of  suspense  was  prolonged  to 
the  uttermost,  but  not  the  too  uttermost. 

This  was  the  act  when  the  lights  in  the  house 
were  not  turned  up  as  the  end  came,  when  the 
footlights  remained  bright,  and  the  curtain  was 
rung  up  and  down  with  alarming  rapidity,  while 
Junius  Cutting  kept  count  that  he  might  cable 
the  number  of  calls  to  the  New  York  papers. 
In  tableaux  and  as  a  body  of  artists  the  com 
pany  were  recalled,  then  the  principals  came 
out  individually,  and  as  I  stood,  ugly  and  alone, 
in  the  centre  of  the  stage  listening  to  the  British 
lion  roaring  encouragement,  my  last  agonizing 
fear  of  booing  rolled  away. 

The  author  was  demanded,  and  for  a  moment 
wavered  uncertainly  between  Cutting's  advice 
to  go  on  and  the  English  manager's  warning 
to  "stop"  where  he  was. 

"They'll  boo  you!"  cried  the  Englishman; 
"they  do  it  now  for  larks." 

"Let  'em,"  urged  Cutting.  "Take  your  call, 
Hallam." 

And,  truly  enough,  when  Hallam  stepped  upon 
the  stage,  a  prolonged  boo  was  heard  above  the 

117 


THE    ACTRESS 

plaudits.  This  was  immediately  drowned  in 
laughter,  with  renewed  applause,  and  little  Mr. 
Hallam  made  a  merry  little  speech  which  he 
had  evidently  carefully  rehearsed. 

The  company  stood  on  tiptoes  in  the  wings 
and  listened  smilingly,  then  trooped  to  the  play 
wright  after  the  curtain  fell  and  shook  hands 
with  him — with  almost  any  one.  Indeed,  Fred- 
erica  wrung  Junius  Cutting's  twice  before  dis 
covering  her  dreadful  error. 

"Don't  be  too  cocksure,"  grumbled  Mr. 
Cutting,  and— 

"Keep  it  up!  keep  it  up!"  exhorted  Mr. 
Hallam;  "the  last  act  must  not  let  down  an 
inch."  And  thus  admonished  we  fled  to  our 
rooms. 

"Oh,  you  are  mykin'  a  'it,  miss!"  exclaimed 
the  irrepressible  Amelia,  probably  to  divert 
my  mind  from  the  costume  episode.  And  once 
more  she  said  it,  only  the  tense  was  in  the  past, 
when  the  last  act  was  over. 

I  sat  with  my  head  on  the  dressing-room  table, 
while  the  tears  trickled  down  my  cheeks  and 
my  body  shook  from  exhaustion.  The  dresser, 
accustomed  to  these  pranks,  sent  for  some 
brandy,  and  the  commissionnaire,  with  his 
medals  newly  polished,  brought  it  to  me. 
118 


THE    ACTRESS 

"I  say,  miss,  you  'ave  'it  'em  hard!"  he  com 
mented.  "All  the  pit  was  a-talkin'  of  you  as 
they  went  out." 

I  lifted  my  homely,  blotched  face  to  the  old 
dear.  "Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  I  quavered  to 
him. 

"Wyte  for  the  papers,  miss,  you'll  see.  I 
'aven't  been  on  this  'ere  door  ten  years  for 
nothin'.  Hit's  a  go,  miss,  the  'ole  piece,  and 
all  the  lydies  and  gentlemen,  but  you  especial, 
miss." 

"Go  away,"  I  said.  "I'll  burst  with  pride." 
And,  two  shillings  richer,  the  old  man  made  his 
exit. 

An  hour  later  six  of  us  sat  about  an  im 
provised  supper-table  in  the  Farquhars'  hotel 
room.  The  restaurants  are  sternly  closed  at 
half-past  twelve  in  London,  and  it  was  nearly 
that  when  we  had  left  the  theatre,  for  there  had 
been  many  delays,  calls  from  friends,  slight 
suggestions  from  the  playwright — at  such  a 
time  absurd — and,  with  it  all,  a  certain  pleas 
ant  heaviness  of  limb  and  torpidity  of  brain 
which  made  it  impossible  to  move  quickly. 

Frederica,  who  was  to  spend  the  night  with 
me,  broke  the  slight  silence  as  we  pulled  up 
our  chairs. 

119 


THE    ACTRESS 

"To  think  I  should  have  forgotten  my  hat  in 
that  dance-hall  scene!"  she  said,  with  a  forlorn 
laugh. 

Now  Frederica  had  made  her  entrance  in  the 
act  with  a  crowd  of  women,  danced  with  the  cow 
boys,  and  went  off  again  with  no  word  to  speak 
beyond,  "Come  on,  girls,  he's  going  to  treat," 
but  we  all  saw  in  a  moment  that  this  was  a 
serious  matter  to  her,  so  were  elaborately  polite 
about  it. 

"I  wouldn't  worry,"  placated  Larry  Chester. 
'The   audience  probably  thought  it  was  shot 
off  outside  by  one  of  the  miners." 

Frederica  refused  to  be  comforted. 

"You  danced  splendidly,"  said  kindly  Bruce 
Farquhar's  wife. 

"Did  I  ?"  smiled  Frederica,  slightly  touched. 
"  Did  you  see  any  one  watching  me  ?" 

"Not  the  audience,"  confessed  Mrs.  Far- 
quhar,  "but  I  think  I  saw  Cutting." 

"Cutting  watching  me!"  shrieked  Frederica, 
"then  I'll  go  back  to-morrow.  Of  course  he 
missed  my  hat!" 

"Have  you  ever  heard,"  said  Farquhar,  dry 
ly,  "  apropos  of  nothing,  of  course,  of  the  prop 
erty  man  who,  when  it  was  discovered  that  a  fa 
mous  critic  had  run  out  from  New  York  to  see  a 

120 


THE    ACTRESS 

new  play  in  a  suburban  town,  wrung  his  hands 
and  wept  bitterly.  'A—  -  D—  -  in  front,'  he 
sobbed,  'and  the  cow  not  come!'" 

At  this  Frederica  flew  over  to  the  story-teller, 
beating  him  fiercely  upon  the  back,  and  order 
was  not  restored  until  the  supper  arrived. 

We  all  found  ourselves  fearfully  hungry,  yet 
between  the  attacks  upon  cold  meat,  salad,  and 
cheese  kept  up  a  stream  of  conversation,  and 
on  one  topic  only — the  play.  Once  or  twice 
we  wandered  from  it;  there  was  even  an  effort 
to  discuss  the  best  place  to  buy  gloves,  but  this 
led  up  to  Larry  Chester's  gauntlets  being  far 
too  large;  and  Mr.  Benny  had  no  sooner  won 
dered  where  he  could  get  a  "good  coat,  not  too 
English,"  when  the  picture  of  me  in  the  stage 
hand's  borrowed  plumage  came  to  them  in  a 
rush,  and  the  occurrence  which  had  been  ac 
cepted  at  the  time  without  a  thought  of  laughter 
loomed  up  enormously  funny  in  the  retrospect. 

"I  never  noticed  it,"  said  Bella.  "I  was  try 
ing  to  think  how  I  could  get  up  from  that  log 
without  disturbing  Mr.  Farquhar." 

Bruce  smiled  a  little  wearily. 

"Did  you  get  up  ?"  I  demanded. 

"Well,  I  sat  down  again,"  justified  Bella. 

We  all  laughed  again  at  this.     It  was  so  easy 

9  121 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  be  amused  and  to  be  kind  to  each  other.  If 
friction  comes  up  at  all  during  the  run  of  the 
play,  it  is  not  present  at  the  first  night's  per 
formance.  Sometimes  we  feel  a  little  bitter 
when  the  papers  are  read  next  day  and  find  one 
person,  whom  the  genus  actor  does  not  value 
highly,  reaping  a  harvest  of  good  notices.  Very 
often  what  is  a  good  performance  to  a  critic  is 
not  to  a  player.  The  actor  knows  by  what 
tricks  the  man  is  winning  applause,  also  knows 
whether  or  not  the  part  is  well  placed  in  a  piece, 
and  if  it  is  the  author  or  the  interpreter — the 
lines  or  the  reading  of  them,  that  is  the  question 
— who  deserves  the  credit.  But  the  critic  is 
rare  who  does  not  judge  by  what  he  sees  and 
hears,  and  he  is  right  from  his  viewpoint,  for 
he  is  like  the  justice  who  decides  a  case  accord 
ing  to  the  matter  brought  into  the  court-room, 
and  not  from  what  he  believes  lurks  behind  the 
evidence. 

In  our  mellow  mood  we  each  took  infinite 
trouble  to  tell  the  others  how  well  they  had  suc 
ceeded,  yet  still  we  cried  each  to  the  other, 
"  Wait."  "  I  just  don't  think  I  can,"  said  Fred- 
erica.  "Imagine  going  to  sleep  with  all  those 
presses  winking  off  their  good  or  evil,  for  or 
against  us!" 

122 


I  looked  up  from  my  last  morsel  of  cheese. 
I  had  been  so  lazily  content  I  had  done  very 
little  but  eat  the  food  the  devoted  Larry  ladled 
on  to  my  plate,  but  I  was  not  yet  ready  for  bed. 
That  would  end  this  lovely  time  of  kindliness, 
of  rapturous  ease,  of  chaffing  among  my  com 
rades,  to  lie  between  cold  sheets  and,  with  this 
new  fear  of  the  critics  overcoming  sleep,  toss 
about  until  the  roll  of  morning  papers  I  had 
ordered  the  night  before  clumped  at  my  door. 

"Why  go  to  bed  ?"  I  asked,  examining  my 
watch.  "It's  three  o'clock;  in  an  hour  we  can 
get  the  papers.  Let  us  go  out  and  walk  or 
drive  or  run  until  they  come." 

"Now,  that's  a  sport!"  cried  Larry  Chester, 
rising  and  pulling  back  my  chair  to  dump  me 
gently  out  of  it. 

The  wife  of  Bruce  Farquhar  looked  eager, 
but  demurred.  "I  think  Bruce  needs  rest," 
she  said. 

Bruce  Farquhar,  six  foot  and  broad-shoul 
dered,  picked  up  his  little  wife  and  tucked  her 
under  his  arm.  "Come  on,"  he  said,  "I'll 
let  her  carry  me  when  I'm  too  tired." 

"There's  a  nice  vegetable  market  somewhere 
near,"  said  Mr.  Benny.     "Never  saw  such  fine 
tomatoes  in  my  life.     We  might  go  there." 
123 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Why,  he  means  Covent  Garden !"  I  exploded. 

"Sure,"  said  Larry;  "and  there's  a  fancy  ball 
in  the  opera-house,  the  last  one  of  the  winter 
season.  I  came  near  going — if  it  hadn't  been 
for  you,  Rhoda."  This  last  in  a  loud  stage 
whisper,  which  every  one  heard  and  much  en 
joyed.  Bella  feared  it  wasn't  quite  au  fait,  but 
was  persuaded,  and  we  walked  out  into  the  early 
dawn  across  the  Strand  up  to  the  market-place. 

There  was  a  wonderful  softness  in  the  air 
that  often  leaves  when  broad  day  comes.  The 
lights  were  still  glimmering  along  the  myriad 
rows  of  stalls,  and  the  mist  through  which  they 
shone  was  like  the  curtain  of  gauze  in  a  Christ 
mas  pantomime.  I  say  pantomime,  for  in  and 
out  among  the  chaos  of  great  vans,  tangled 
horses,  shouting  hucksters,  and  twinkling  han 
soms  fantastic  figures  weaved  their  way.  Some 
were  in  domino,  some  wore  huge  coats  over 
fluffy  short  skirts.  A  harlequin  and  columbine 
had  recklessly  discarded  their  outer  wraps  and 
were  riotously  falling  from  one  potato  barrel 
to  another.  Finally  a  policeman  gravely  piloted 
them  to  a  cab,  and  the  hucksters  laughed  while 
they  gathered  up  their  scattered  vegetables. 

"Eh,   ball   night!"   ejaculated   one;    "they's 
lucky  ones  who  'as  the  flowers  to  sell." 
124 


THE    ACTRESS 

This  suggested  a  new  thought,  and  we  walked 
through  the  long,  low  market  buildings  to  the 
flower-stalls.  Here  we  paused,  gaping,  for  the 
transformation  scene  had  changed,  and  row 
upon  row  of  spring  flowers  rose  to  greet  us.  A 
private  carriage  was  waiting  for  one  noisy  party; 
the  women  still  were  masked,  but  they  need  not 
have  been,  for  up  to  the  tips  of  their  elaborate 
head-dresses  they  were  screened  by  armfuls  of 
daffodils,  flags,  and  green  vines.  The  flower- 
women  plied  their  escorts  with  importunities, 
quite  conscious  of  their  softened  condition,  and 
one  fresh-cheeked  girl  winked  at  me  slyly. 

"Masks,  miss,"  she  said;  "their  guv'nors  are 
sleepin'  sound  in  their  beds."  Then  mindful 
of  her  trade:  "Carn't  you  *ave  a  nosegay,  miss  ?" 

Eager  to  be  in  the  running,  young  Mr.  Ches 
ter  wished  to  smother  us  all  in  flowers;  Mr. 
Benny  bought  tomatoes;  and  Bruce  Farquhar 
gravely  presented  his  little  wife  with  a  large 
potted  palm.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  a  man 
slouched  by  from  out  the  fog,  and  then  another 
and  another,  each  with  a  colored  poster  pinned 
to  his  breast  and  a  roll  of  papers  under  his  arm. 
For  a  moment  we  held  back,  half  afraid  to 
buy. 

"We  are  so  happy,"  Bella  whimpered;  then 
125 


THE    ACTRESS 

Frederica  valiantly  set  the  example.  When  we 
had  them  all  there  was  very  little  room  for 
flowers,  and  no  desire  for  anything  in  life  beyond 
a  place  to  read  our  fate  and  have  it  over  with. 

"The  hotel  is  too  far,"  gasped  Mrs.  Farquhar. 

"But  there  are  no  restaurants  open  till  six  in 
this  provincial  town,"  her  husband  complained. 

"  Let's  rent  cabs  and  drive  round  slowly," 
suggested  Larry. 

"Cabs?"  I  repeated.  "There's  a  cabman's 
shelter  down  the  street.  It's  always  open. 
We'll  bribe  them  to  let  us  in." 

The  procession  of  six  wound  their  way  down 
the  hill  to  the  little  green-framed  house  where 
coffee  and  rolls  are  dispensed  to  the  cabbies 
only.  The  man  in  charge  declared  that  it  wasn't 
done,  but  still  we  persuaded  him — no  matter 
how — and  each  with  a  different  journal  raced 
frantically  through  reams  of  crackling  sheets. 

Cries  of  "It  isn't  here!  Oh  yes,  it  is!" 
"Only  a  squib!"  or  "Full  head-lines!"  rent  the 
air.  Then  for  an  instant  there  was  silence  while 
all  eyes  scanned  hastily  the  criticisms  of  the 
play,  and  fell  eagerly  upon  the  actors'  para 
graph  at  the  bottom,  where,  to  specialize,  each 
one  searched  madly  for  his  name.  Papers  were 
exchanged  with  "Here,  this  is  good  for  you," 

126 


THE    ACTRESS 

or  "Didn't  I  tell  you  the  last  act  was  best?" 
But  there  was  little  comment  until  we  had  gal 
loped  hastily  through  all  of  them.  Frederica 
broke  the  ecstatic  silence. 

"And    not   one    missed    my   hat,"    she    said. 
Then    we   shrieked  with   the  wild   laughter  of 

O 

those  whose  last  fear  had  disappeared,  for 
among  all  that  varying  criticism  each  player 
found  some  kindly  praise. 

"As  for  you,"  said  Farquhar,  pinning  an  im 
aginary  medal  to  my  breast, "  queen  of  the  hits!" 
My  protests  were  drowned  in  a  flood  of  as 
surances;  even  Bella  asserted  that  I  had  made 
the  greatest  success  of  any  in  my  line,  and  while 
I  shared  the  line  alone  I  squeezed  our  L.  L. 
around  the  waist,  for  she  had  spoken  from  the 
depths  of  her  stupid  honesty. 

"My  dear  people,"  I  murmured  to  myself, 
as  I  turned  once,  twice,  three  times  before  I 
slept.  "My  dear  work,  with  all  its  misery  but 
all  its  joy.  To  think  a  man  could  ask  a  woman 
to  give  it  up  for  him — for  him!  And  to  get  what 
in  exchange  ?  A  place  behind  his  cofFee-urn, 
a  house  to  play  in  through  the  day,  and  through 
the  night- 
Then  I  murmured  nothing  more,  for  sleep 
had  come. 

127 


VII 


IT  was  two  weeks  before  the  Farquhars  and  I 
changed  our  quarters  for  permanent  abiding- 
places.  That  fortnight  we  had  lived  in  so  be 
wildering  a  whirl  of  bliss  that  it  was  hard  to  get 
down  to  the  necessities  of  life  beyond  flying  in 
and  out  of  the  morning  tub  and  seeing  that  our 
boots  were  blacked.  We  had  not  been  doing 
London.  Oh  no;  with  so  much  time  ahead  of  us, 
we  would  never  get  around  to  that.  But  there 
were  more  rehearsals  to  cut  down  the  play  a 
bit,  for  the  Briton  must  get  out  in  time  for  his 
early  supper;  and  there  was  talking  through 
gramophones  and  posing  for  pictures,  which 
often  meant  spending  an  entire  day  in  the 
theatre  with  our  war-paint  on,  and  telling 
shoals  of  reporters  how  we  loved  England. 

Then,  too,  there  were  old  friends  to  be  seen, 
and  some  acquaintances,  who  have  a  way  of 
springing  up  out  of  the  earth  at  the  word  suc 
cess;  and  of  writing  to  as  many  more  and  telling 
them  politely  that  we  couldn't  quite  place  them 
128 


THE    ACTRESS 

— which  goodness  knows  we  couldn't,  as  we  had 
probably  never  seen  them;  besides  certain  oth 
ers—but  these  were  not  Americans — who  wrote 
quite  simply,  without  any  pretence  of  know 
ing  me,  and  invited  me  to  tea  and  "bring  the 
company."  It  was  interesting  to  learn  by  this 
that  there  are  climbers  even  in  solid  England. 
There  the  resemblance  ceases,  however,  for  the 
last  thing  a  climber  would  allow  in  her  drawing- 
room  at  home  would  be  an  actor — at  least,  not 
if  she  expected  to  climb  any  higher.  Over  here 
while  we  would  probably  have  come  under  the 
"  freak  class,"  at  least  there  seemed  to  be  no  un 
easiness  over  our  possibly  annexing  the  family 
snuff-boxes.  So  I  answered  all  my  notes  of  this 
kind  as  courteously  as  I  could,  and  pleaded  re 
hearsals. 

But  by  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  when  the  long 
gallery  and  pit  queue  spoke  a  real  success,  and 
the  libraries — the  library  institution  is  like  our 
Tyson's — were  buying  up  all  the  best  seats  for 
weeks  ahead,  we  began  to  look  about  for  homes. 
Poor  strollers!  It  only  takes  a  half  a  dozen 
photographs  on  the  mantel-piece,  a  special  one 
on  the  dresser,  and  the  trunks  unpacked  to  the 
bottom  to  be  at  home. 

Bella  stayed  on  in  her  hotel  because  she  had 
129 


THE    ACTRESS 

five  evening  gowns  and  wanted  to  dress  for 
dinner.  Frederica  was  obliged  to  live  on  with 
her  relatives,  though  she  was  not  at  all  happy 
over  this,  and  spent  most  of  her  days  looking 
at  expensive  chambers,  hoping  to  find  a  bargain 
for  five  shillings  a  week.  No  one  knew  where 
Mr.  Benny  lived.  He  would  be  seen  occasion 
ally  emerging  from  a  sort  of  well  down  by  the 
Embankment,  and  I  watched  him  anxiously  to 
find  if  he  looked  under-nourished;  but  he  never 
did,  and  came  to  my  dressing-room  nightly  to 
tell  me  of  the  splendid  restaurant  dinner  he  had 
found  for  a  shilling. 

The  Farquhars  went  to  housekeeping.  It 
seemed  a  very  inexpensive  proposition  at  first. 
Then  they  discovered  that  besides  the  rent  for 
the  flat  and  furniture  they  would  have  to  pay 
a  share  of  the  rates — or  taxes,  we  would  say; 
also  that  the  linen  and  plate  were  extra;  also 
that  the  hall  porter  must  receive  a  stated  sum 
weekly;  also  that  the  maid  must  have  extra 
money  for  beer;  also  that  she  must  be  insured, 
for  if  she  fell  down  while  in  their  service  they 
would  have  to  support  her  for  life;  and  above 
all  the  alsos  was  the  charge  for  and  the  menace 
of  the  inventory. 

One  would  naturally  think  if  the  landlord 
130 


THE    ACTRESS 

wished  to  protect  his  property  that  he  should 
pay  for  the  cost  of  doing  so — but  not  in  merry 
England.  The  Farquhars  paid  a  guinea  for  a 
long  roll  of  manuscript  telling  them  that  there 
were  eight  breakfast-cups,  one  slightly  cracked; 
that  a  small  scratch  would  be  found  on  the  base 
board  two  feet  to  the  left  of  the  dining-room 
door;  that  the  spring  of  the  spare  bed  squeaked 
slightly,  and—  But  it  wrent  on  for  yards  in  this 
fashion,  and  the  Farquhars  had  not  been  in 
a  week  before  they  found  themselves  daily 
circling  the  rooms  on  their  hands  and  knees  to 
find  if  there  were  any  new  defacements  to  be 
added  to  their  list  of  expenses. 

I  had  decided  on  lodgings,  for  I  like  living 
after  the  manner  of  the  country  I'm  in,  and 
Larry  Chester  thought  he  would  go  along,  too. 
Now  this  would  not  do,  one  of  the  reasons  being 
that  I  should  be  bored,  and  another  that  he 
would  be.  He  had  been  clinging  rather  timor 
ously  to  me  ever  since  the  Marconigram  had 
been  received,  tearing  out  to  have  extremely 
good  times  at  gay  supper-parties,  and  tearing 
back  to  tell  me  about  them.  Larry  was  at  the 
stage  of  adolescence  when  he  feared  by  winking 
he  might  miss  some  one  of  the  good  things  of 
life,  or,  to  drop  into  the  singular,  some  "good 


THE    ACTRESS 

thing."  He  found  me  particularly  satisfactory, 
for  I  was  quite  willing  to  see  him  when  there 
was  nothing  else  doing,  and  just  as  willing  to 
let  him  go  when  there  was.  Now,  the  Marconi- 
gram  girl  would  stop  all  that.  "She  demands 
so  much,"  fretted  Larry  to  me;  "she's  not  a 
good  fellow  like  you." 

"Perhaps  she  cares  for  you,"  I  suggested. 

Larry  eyed  me  suspiciously,  his  faith  in  him 
self  almost  shaken.  'There  are  times,"  he 
would  say,  "when  I  feel  that  you  don't." 

Complacent  as  I  was  over  Larry's  attitude, 
I  could  understand  for  the  first  time  how  a 
wife  who  did  not  care  madly  for  a  recreant  hus 
band  might  make  him  considerably  happier 
than  one  who  did,  and  she  herself  remain  as 
joyful  as  a  negative  person  can  be.  And  this 
set  me  to  thinking  about  Aaron,  for  Larry  was 
telling  me  whom  he  had  met  the  night  before, 
and  I  knew  it  would  be  a  long  story  and  give 
me  plenty  of  time  for  my  own  reflections. 

Aaron  had  not  been  entirely  out  of  my  mind 
during  those  two  weeks.  I  had  written  him 
once  and  thanked  him  for  his  cable,  and  he, 
having  seen  our  notices  copied  in  the  New  York 
papers,  had  sent  me  a  letter  deploring  the  lack 
of  acumen  in  the  British  public. 
132 


THE    ACTRESS 

"It's  a  strange  thing,"  he  wrote,  "that  it  takes 
a  broker  and  not  a  'cricket'  to  know  where  you 
belong.  I've  always  heard  those  critical  chaps 
across  the  pond  were  sharks  at  getting  at  the 
truth,  but  I  see  they've  only  surface  knowledge, 
after  all.  The  Times,  for  instance,  that  stands 
for  everything  that's  true  and  proper,  why  didn't 
their  man  cry  out  in  their  respectable  columns: 
'And  as  for  you,  Miss  Rhoda  Miller,  take  that 
putty  off  your  nose,  those  plumpers  out  of  your 
cheeks,  scrub  off  that  Indian  red,  tear  off  those 
wrappings  which  make  your  breast  and  waist 
and  hips  one  hideous  straight  line.  Throw  back 
your  shoulders,  stop  toeing  in,  go  home,  and 
once  there  hunt  up  your  Aaron  Adams,  a  most 
presentable  young  man  who  is  yearning  for  you, 
and  let  him  in  turn  hunt  up  a  minister.'  But 
did  the  critic  say  that?  No.  He  said:  'Not 
in  many  years  have  I  seen  the  individuality  of 
an  actress  so  thoroughly  lost  in  the  character 
she  portrays." 

Then  Aaron  went  on  to  speak  of  other  things, 
but  not  of  the  kiss,  nor  had  I  referred  to  it,  or 
his  mean  cowardice,  when  I  wrote  to  him.  But 
it  amused  me  to  see  that  he  had  omitted  from 
his  quoting  the  last  line  of  the  critic:  "It  must 
be  a  joy  to  Miss  Rhoda  Miller  to  have  so  per- 


THE    ACTRESS 

fectly  found  her  niche."  I  looked  at  Larry  smil 
ingly  from  out  my  dreams,  and  he  nodded  his 
head  in  surprising  affirmation.  "It's  a  fact," 
he  said,  "the  very  first  man  she'd  ever  kissed." 
As  this  was  a  rude  awakening  from  my  reverie 
I  must  have  expressed  astonishment,  which,  as 
it  happened,  was  the  correct  emotion,  for  he 
continued  to  nod  happily.  "She  told  me  her 
self  I  was,"  he  added,  confidently. 

Then  I  turned  back  to  the  embers  of  the  hotel 
tea-room  fire,  and  went  on  with  my  musing,  for 
I  realized  that  he  was  not  as  yet  half  through 
with  his  adventure.  Of  course,  it  was  not  dif 
ficult  to  put  Aaron  out  of  my  thoughts  when  I 
wanted  to;  even  our  parting  had  grown  a  little 
dim  in  my  mind,  and  for  the  next  few  minutes 
I  chose  and  domiciled  myself  in  an  apartment 
all  chintz-hung  and  Georgian-chaired.  It  was 
so  easy  to  find  such  rooms  before  a  glowing  fire 
that  by  the  time  young  Mr.  Chester  was  saying, 
"Of  course,  it  was  all  in  confidence — anyway,  I 
haven't  mentioned  names,"  I  had  decided  to 
drive  right  out  to  the  lodgings  of  my  choice  and 
pay  a  deposit  on  them. 

Larry  swung  off  to  his  club,  and  I  took  a  cab 
by  the  hour,  following  the  advice  of  a  porter, 
although  I  didn't  anticipate  spending  any  time 

'34 


THE    ACTRESS 

over  the  selection.  I  had  decided  to  live  up 
town  past  Buckingham  Palace,  some  because 
I  liked  the  drive  and  some  because  I  was  en 
titled  to  a  neighborhood,  since  this  was  my 
third  visit.  The  first  year  an  American  stays 
in  Bloomsbury,  the  second  somewhere  off  the 
Strand,  and  the  third  she  makes  for  a  "good 
address,"  which  means  very  little  to  her,  but  a 
great  deal  to  her  English  friends. 

Smartdom  is  most  attractive  at  the  beginning 
of  the  season.  All  the  little  houses  are  getting 
coats  of  fresh  cream  paint  on  their  faces,  the 
casements  and  doors  are  in  bright  green,  and 
lovely  boxes  of  pink  geranium  with  white  mar 
guerites  creep  out  from  under  every  window- 
sill  and  swing  daringly  on  the  ledges.  I  began 
at  the  top  of  one  of  these  small-housed  streets 
and  told  the  driver  he  could  wait  there,  as  I  was 
just  going  in  to  get  lodgings.  He  said  he'd 
better  follow  me,  as  I  then  would  not  have  so 
far  to  walk  back.  This  was  not  encouraging; 
but  I  made  my  attack  upon  the  first  house  hav 
ing  the  little  sign  "Apartments"  in  the  win 
dow,  confident  that  neither  the  horse  nor  I 
would  have  much  distance  to  cover. 

The  young  persons  who  opened  the  first  three 
doors  at  which  I  "knocked  and  rang"  said  there 
135 


THE    ACTRESS 

were  no  rooms  unoccupied.  "Then  why,"  I 
asked  of  the  last  of  the  three,  "  don't  you  take 
your  card  in  ?" 

The  young  person  gazed  at  me.  "Ow,  we 
couldn't  do  that,  could  we,  madam  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  responded.  "It  doesn't 
require  much  muscle." 

I  never  learned  until  after  I  had  been  several 
weeks  in  England  that  one  is  not  supposed  to 
answer  this  last  inquiring  phrase  of  all  people 
who  disagree  with  one,  yet  wish  to  be  civil  about 
it,  or  in  rarer  cases  wish  to  be  uncivil  yet  cover 
it  up  with  a  veneer  of  polite  interrogation.  It 
makes  it  practically  impossible  to  grow  angry 
with  a  shopkeeper,  even  though  he  might  say: 
"And  you  do  look  a  jay  in  that,  don't  you, 
madam  ?" 

The  young  person  at  the  third  door  passed 
over  my  flippancy  regarding  muscle,  and  went 
on  serenely  to  explain:  "If  we  would  tyke  it 
out,  'ow  would  they  know  there  was  apart 
ments  ?" 

"But  there  aren't!"  I  shrieked. 

"Ho,  yus,  there  are;  there's  apartments  in 
the  'ouse,  but  they're  let  just  now,  aren't  they, 
madam  ?" 

Worsted,  I  went  on  down  the  street,  and 
136 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  cab  trailed  after  me.  At  the  next  house  I 
tried  there  was  no  card  in  the  window,  so  I 
thought  I  might  reasonably  expect  to  secure 
accommodation,  and  as  a  result  the  door  was 
firmly  closed  on  me  by  an  icy  butler  at  the  be 
ginning  of  my  request. 

"Better  stick  to  the  signs,  mum,"  advised 
the  cabby,  seeing  my  misadventure.  With  my 
usual  low  taste,  the  cabby  and  I  became  very 
good  friends  as  the  hour  went  on.  He  would 
drive  down  the  street  ahead  of  me  while  I  was 
interviewing  various  landladies,  and  upon  dis 
covering  a  fresh-looking  house  with  "lyce  cur- 
tings"  in  the  window  would  gallop  his  horse 
noisily  back  to  announce  his  find.  As  it  was  a 
quiet  street  just  off  of  Belgrave  Square,  our  mode 
of  procedure  commanded  a  good  deal  of  at 
tention,  and,  through  fear  of  having  more  doors 
closed  upon  me  and  all  houses  "full  up,"  I  sent 
him  off  to  a  public-house  and  bade  him  have  a 
drink  at  my  expense. 

For  two  hours  I  searched  and  for  two  days 
afterward,  and  as  I  looked  into  the  lodgings  that 
are  dubbed  fashionable,  all  ready  and  pitifully 
furbished  up  for  the  opening  of  the  season,  I  was 
in  a  state  of  continual  amazement  that  women 
who  must  live  in  such  uncomfortable  surround- 
137 


THE    ACTRESS 

ings  would  make  the  smallest  pretence  of  join 
ing  the  fashionable  spring  throng. 

The  ground  or  dining-room  floor  consisted 
always  of  two  square,  dark  rooms,  generally  not 
connected,  so  that  to  pass  from  one's  bedroom 
into  one's  drawing-room  one  would  have  to 
make  a  toilet  fit  for  meeting  the  other  lodgers 
in  the  icy  hallway.  Those  who  were  rich 
enough  to  engage  the  drawing-room,  one  flight 
up,  would  as  a  rule  sleep  on  the  floor  above,  and 
have  to  climb  stairs  whenever  a  handkerchief 
was  required.  The  bath  -  rooms,  if  there  were 
any,  were  always  displayed  with  pride,  and, 
while  I  have  seen  several  porcelain  ones  in 
Bloomsbury,  I  did  not  find  an  inviting  tub  in 
all  my  wanderings  through  Belgravia  or  Mayfair. 

I  had  long  ago  given  up  chintz  and  old  ma 
hogany  furniture,  when  I  found  a  drawing  and 
bedroom  with  connecting  doors.  An  early 
Victorian  atmosphere  hung  over  the  house,  yet, 
while  there  was  no  bath-room,  there  was  a  large 
wardrobe,  which  was  more  than  I  had  seen  else 
where.  Closets,  of  course,  are  not  known  in  old 
England,  and  what  the  ladies  who  come  up  to 
town  for  the  season  do  with  their  clothes  is 
something  I  have  not  yet  solved.  Frederica, 
who  had  been  around  some,  said  that  they  wore 

138 


THE    ACTRESS 

them;  but  whether  it  is  absence  of  pegs  which 
limits  their  wardrobe,  or  absence  of  wardrobe 
which  limits  the  pegs,  she  was  unable  to  tell. 

So  I  settled  down  in  my  lodgings,  unpacked 
my  photographs,  rearranged  the  furniture,  and 
piece  by  piece  garnered  and  handed  over  to  the 
house-maid,  Cissy,  the  innumerable  small  bits 
of  bric-a-brac  which  have  a  way  of  infesting 
English  drawing-rooms.  I  gave  as  an  excuse 
for  this  harvesting  the  fear  that  I  might  break 
them;  and  there  was  more  truth  in  this  state 
ment  than  she  knew,  for  a  perturbed  spirit  and 
the  ferrule  of  an  umbrella  could  wreck  the  es 
tablishment  in  five  minutes,  and  I  could  imagine 
the  temptation  on  a  stormy  day.  It  was  really 
very  comfortable  with  an  open  fire  going,  and 
as  soon  as  Cissy  understood  my  remarkable 
ways,  or,  rather,  as  soon  as  she  ceased  to  at 
tempt  to  understand  them,  we  got  on  very  well. 

There  is  nothing  disobliging  about  a  Briton, 
as  we  irritable  visitors  are  apt  to  think;  it  is 
simply  that  he  cannot  accommodate  himself  to 
a  way  of  doing  things  different  from  his  nine- 
century-old  fashion.  When  I  told  Cissy  that 
my  tin  tub  could  be  prepared  before  the  fire  in 
the  drawing-room  she  wavered  in  and  out  un 
certainly  for  half  an  hour,  evidently  with  mes- 
J39 


THE    ACTRESS 

sages  from  the  landlady,  but  in  deadly  terror  of 
delivering  them.  I  went  on  with  my  coffee  and 
toast,  which  was  served  at  my  bedside,  watching 
developments.  The  burst  came  at  last.  But 
it  was  a  very  weak  argument  for  an  American. 

"It  ayn't  done,  mum,"  said  the  cowering 
Cissy. 

"What  isn't  done,  Cissy?"  I  inquired. 

"The  barth,  in  the  dro ring-room;  they  has 
'em  by  their  beds,  mum.  You  might  splash 
the  carpet,  mightn't  you,  mum  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "and  I  probably  will;  but 
it  might  be  an  improvement.  Think  how  pleas 
ant  to  see  your  carpet  clean  and  bright  once 
more!" 

This  mode  of  talk  was  a  mistake,  and  I  knew 
it,  but  I  had  to  have  my  little  fling  before  I 
forced  myself  to  the  necessary  disagreeable  tone. 
"You  tell  Mrs.  Buckle,"  I  continued,  harden 
ing  visibly,  "that  Americans  all  bathe  before 
the  drawing-room  fire,  but,  as  a  concession  to 
her,  I  will  be  careful  not  to  splash." 

Then  the  tub  came  up.  It  was  a  round  one, 
something  like  the  saucepan  we  have  our  eggs 
shirred  in,  but  a  little  larger.  I  had  been  given 
my  choice  between  this  style  and  a  chair-effect, 
and  I  took  this  because  there  did  not  seem  so 
140 


THE    ACTRESS 

many  different  ways  of  bathing  in  it.  Deciding 
is  a  painful  operation  for  me  at  any  time,  and 
while  I  would  be  trying  to  do  so  the  water  would 
grow  cold.  Now,  in  the  saucepan  you  simply 
get  in  and  curl  up  like  a  snail,  and  there  you 
are;  but  with  the  chair-effect  one  can  sit  on  the 
ledge,  feet  inside,  or  one  can  sit  inside,  feet  out 
side,  or  one  can  stand  up  even,  if  one  is  very 
careful  not  to  splash,  and  mirthfully  squeeze 
water  from  a  sponge  held  over  the  head. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  I'm  entirely  wrong  about 
the  method.  Even  with  my  attachment  for  Cissy 
growing  steadily,  I  realized  that  I  should  never 
know  her  well  enough  to  ask  her  about  it — or 
any  subject  of  the  King,  for  that  matter.  I  went 
out  to  take  tea  with  Frederica's  people  on  the 
day  I  was  to  decide  about  the  bath-tub,  and 
there  I  met  an  agreeable  young  composer  who, 
being  of  my  class,  so  to  speak — anyway,  having 
quantities  of  temperament  all  over  him — I  found 
rather  slmpatico. 

It  occurred  to  me,  since  we  found  our  souls 
"speaking  to  each  other  from  out  the  dark 
ness" — his  expression,  not  mine — that  I  could 
ask  him  if  he  sat  on  the  ledge  or  let  his  feet 
stick  out;  but  just  as  I  was  leaning  forward  con 
fidentially  he  leaned  forward  confidentially,  too, 
141 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  said  that  he  didn't  find  me  at  all  American, 
as  I  hadn't  asked  a  single  question. 

When  an  Englishman  tells  you  you  are  not 
like  an  American,  you  are  expected  to  scream 
with  joy.  It  is  really  the  best  he  can  offer  you, 
and  I  suppose  we  should  all  behave  better  over 
it  than  we  do.  But  I  was  just  preparing  to  get 
back  at  him — my  expression,  not  his — with  a 
suitable  reply  when  he,  continuing  his  gaze,  fur 
ther  said:  "You  are  like  a  gentle  aspen  leaf 
blown  by  every  wind."  Then  he  flew  to  the 
piano  in  a  rear  room  with  no  more  warning, 
and  began  picking  out  a  theme  which  was  very 
twittery  and  did  sound  a  little  like  a  leaf. 

I  went  on  eating  my  plum-cake,  however, 
which  was  delicious,  and  presently  his  aunt 
came  bustling  in  to  tell  me  I  had  given  him  an 
inspiration,  and  would  I  not  come  into  the 
music-room  so  as  to  keep  within  his  vision.  I 
replied  that  I  was  awfully  pleased  to  be  an  in 
spiration,  but  I  had  to  go  home  to  put  coal  on 
my  fire.  And,  although  there  was  still  some 
plum-cake  left,  I  really  did  go.  Frederica  was 
quite  cross  with  me  the  next  evening  at  the 
theatre.  She  said  if  I  inspired  the  man  I  should 
see  it  to  a  finish,  and  not  desert  him  to  flounder 
around  all  night  hunting  up  stray  leaves;  that 
142 


THE    ACTRESS 
he  had  been  at  it  until  four  in  the  morning,  all 

O7 

on  the  loud  pedal,  too,  and,  while  his  aunt  loved 
the  noise,  their  nice  cook  who  made  the  plum- 
cake  had  given  notice. 

I  was  very  sorry  about  the  cook,  and  yet 
found  it  rather  pleasant  to  be  a  leaf.  To  tell 
the  truth,  I  was  growing  lonesome.  Living  so 
far  up-town,  I  saw  little  of  the  company  except 
at  the  theatre,  and  I  ate  my  meals  in  solitude 
on  the  Early  Victorian  table,  with  my  feet  up 
on  the  carved  legs — except  when  the  landlady 
came  in.  Of  course,  I  was  perfectly  happy  in 
the  theatre,  and  I  was  pretty  happy  as  I  drove 
home  that  night. 

First  would  come  sedate  Pall  Mall,  or,  rather, 
one  would  come  to  it.  I  don't  suppose  Pall 
Mall  ever  came  to  any  one,  not  even  to  the 
First  Gentleman  of  Europe.  Then  we  made  the 
sharp  turn  past  St.  James's  Palace,  with  the  sen 
tries  of  that  and  Marlborough  House  on  either 
side  standing  foolishly  through  the  night,  and 
after  that  swept  out  into  the  wide  roadway  up 
to  Buckingham  Palace,  with  the  air  cool  from 
the  park  against  my  face.  More  sentries  at  the 
King's  house,  and  sometimes  lines  and  lines  of 
waiting  vehicles  if  there  was  a  court.  But  we 

O 

would  pass  through  them  easily,  twist  half-way 
H3 


THE    ACTRESS 

round  the  palace  grounds,  and  turn  up  to  mine 
own  street. 

At  times  the  moon  shone  softly,  at  times  the 
rain  beat  upon  me,  but  it  was  all  delicious — ex 
cept  that  I  was  quite  alone.  There  is  some 
thing  selfish  about  being  comfortable  and  quite 
alone.  I  felt  that  I  should  not  be,  or,  at  least, 
that  I  should  unselfishly  share  it;  besides,  this 
was  the  time  I  liked  to  talk.  This  was  the 
Aaron  hour,  when  I  used  to  find  him  waiting 
at  the  stage  door,  always  a  little  red-faced  and 
embarrassed  over  being  a  "Johnny,"  and  we 
would  go  out  for  our  supper  and  our  easy,  idle 
fun. 

Now,  when  I  reached  my  lodgings  I  would 
fall  up  the  dark  stairs,  feel  my  way  to  my  door, 
and  sit  down  in  lonely  state  to  what  was  left  of 
the  joint  and  a  dignified  bottle  of  stout.  There 
were  two  large  chairs  in  the  room,  one  on  either 
side  the  fire,  and  after  supper,  while  I  warmed 
my  toes,  I  would  stare  reflectively  at  that  other 
chair,  wonder  who  would  look  best  in  it,  and 
think  how  mean  I  was  to  have  two  chairs  and 
use  only  one  of  them.  Then  the  coals  would 
drop  one  by  one  noisily  into  the  ash-pan,  and 
the  clock  on  the  mantel  would  click  out  each 
tick  in  a  jerky  way  that  was  far  from  restful. 

144 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  never  saw  a  timepiece  make  so  little  effort 
to  be  companionable;  it  was  just  a  machine,  bid 
ding  me  go  to  bed  whether  I  was  sleepy  or  not. 
The  Parliament  clock  was  scarcely  more  sooth 
ing,  and  sometimes,  if  the  air  was  clear,  the 
chimes  of  Big  Ben  would  come  filtering  through 
the  window  when  I  did  try  to  sleep,  and  I  would 
toss  about  and  tell  myself  what  a  really  small 
person  I  was,  after  all,  for  two  large  rooms  and 
a  wardrobe. 

"Turn  turn,  ta  da!"  went  the  first  quarter  of 
Big  Ben  one  very  particular  night.  "There, 
it's  a  quarter-past  two,"  I  said  to  myself,  in  my 
cavernous  bed,  trying  not  to  get  excited  over 
it.  "  I  wonder  if  it's  my  conscience  ?  I  won 
der  if  I  wouldn't  be  happier  making  some  one 
else  happy  than  to  be  happy  just  by  myself? 
That  day  before  the  hotel  fire,  for  instance,  I 
saw  so  clearly  how  well  one  could  get  on  with  a 
nice,  broad-shouldered  husband  who  loved  her, 
even  though  she  didn't  love  him.  Why,  before 
the  fire  it  was  just  as  though  I  had  tried 
it  myself.  At  least,  in  such  a  case  she  wouldn't 
be  fretting  about  him  every  minute  he  was  out 
of  her  sight,  and  it  would  be  very  nice,  indeed, 
to  have  him  fret  about  her.  Well,  I'll  think  it 
over  in  the  morning,  and  perhaps  I'll  ask  Bruce 

H5 


THE    ACTRESS 

Farquhar's  wife,  although  she's  rather  old- 
fashioned.  I  really  must  get  to  sleep  now. 
One  little  sheep  jumped  over  a  fence  —  two 
little  sheep  jumped  over  a  fence  —  three  lit 
tle—" 

"Turn  turn,  ta  da!  ta,  da,  turn  turn!"  chimed 
Big  Ben,  remorselessly.  I  wriggled. 

"Half-past  two!  It  is  my  conscience.  And 
I  ought  to  decide  this  right  now  and  get  it  over 
with,  even  if  I  make  a  sacrifice.  It  would  be 
better — best,  in  fact.  Sacrifices  are  splendid 
things  for  people,  and  if  I  make  one  for  any 
body  it  ought  to  be  for  Aaron,  as  he  cares  most 
for  me.  Aaron  is  a  good  man,  and  I  hear  he 
is  rich;  but  that  doesn't  matter.  But  why  is  he 
so  stubborn  ?  Well,  I  suppose  he  might  say 
I  am,  too;  even  nations  have  that  weakness. 
But  what  do  two  nations  do  when  they  are  both 
stubborn — they  compromise,  don't  they  ?  Now, 
how  could  I  compromise  with  Aaron — do  the 
right  thing,  I  mean,  and  still  get  what  I  want  ? 
The  right  thing,  according  to  Aaron,  I  suppose, 
would  be  to  marry  him,  and  what  I  want  is  to 
keep  on  playing  and — why,  there's  the  com 
promise  ! — and  yet  hardly  that,  for  while  I  would 
get  only  one  thing  more  than  I  have  ever  had 
before,  which  is  Aaron,  Aaron  will  get  two — 

146 


THE    ACTRESS 

me  and  the  stage.  It's  really  a  sacrifice,  after 
all— and  what  I  want  besides." 

:'Tum  turn,  ta  da!  ta  da,  turn  turn!  turn  turn, 
ta  da!" 

I  swung  out  of  bed,  and  groped  for  the  gas. 
I  was  half  laughing,  which  one  seldom  does 
alone.  "You  can  go  on,  Big  Ben,"  I  apos 
trophized;  "before  three  o'clock  I  shall  be  the 
same  as  married." 

At  the  bottom  of  my  red  portfolio  in  a  sealed 
envelope,  labelled,  "To  be  destroyed  in  the 
event  of  my  death,"  was  Aaron's  letter  about 
the  kiss.  Up  to  that  time  I  never  could  analyze 
the  feelings  that  had  made  me  keep  it,  but  I 
could  understand  by  my  doing  so  how  lots  of 
people  retain  letters  that  sound  foolish  in  a 
court-room.  Anyhow,  I  certainly  didn't  want 
even  Frederica  to  know,  in  case  I  was  run  over 
by  a  motor  'bus,  that  I  had  kissed  Aaron  as  he 
said  I  had,  so  I  had  sealed  it  up  in  this  fashion. 

Now  I  realized,  as  I  tore  it  open,  that  I  had 
been  moved  to  keep  it  as  the  written  justifica 
tion  for  the  proposition  I  was  about  to  make. 
Yes,  there  were  the  words:  "Don't  match  me 
against  the  charm  of  that  great  gray  town; 
don't  you  dare  to  contrast  me  with  a  mob  of 
men  and  women  grinning  at  your  antics.  Give 
H7 


THE    ACTRESS 

them  their  place  and  give  me  mine."  That  was 
it,  that  last  sentence,  the  crux  of  the  whole  situa 
tion:  "Give  them  their  place  and  give  me  mine." 
Crouched  down  by  the  dying  embers  for  warmth, 
the  red  portfolio  in  my  lap  and  the  ink-well  on 
the  floor,  I  wrote  to  Aaron: 

"It  is  all  so  plain  to  me  to-night,"  I  wrote, 
"our  real  need  of  each  other,  and  how  it  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  outside  matters, 
such  as  brokerage  or  acting.  I  wonder  I  have 
not  seen  it  before,  and  I  confess  that  I  was 
wrong.  I  think,  too,  that  we  can  be  very 
happy,  you  doing  the  work  you  most  care  for 
through  the  day,  and  I  doing  my  work,  which 
is  always  play,  at  night.  Then  there  will  be 
the  little  supper  for  us  two  at  midnight,  for 
I  shall  not  often  have  to  play  out  of  New  York, 
you  see;  and  even  if  I  do  I  will  know  that 
you  are  where  you  are,  and  you  will  know  that 
I  am  where  I  am.  Not  many  married  couples 
have  such  perfect  understanding.  And  I  prom 
ise  you  now,  Aaron,  that  I  should  never  leave 
you  to  go  so  far  away  again — certainly  not  over 
here  to  London,  where  I  find  myself  so  lonely. 
That  will  be  my  sacrifice  for  you.  But  now 
that  I  am  here,  dear,  do  steal  a  little  time  from 
that  old  brokering  and  come  over  for  a  rest. 

148 


THE    ACTRESS 

You  need  it,  you  owe  it  to  yourself,  and  we  will 
talk  together  of  the  day  and  whether  or  not 
Frederica  shall  be  maid  of  honor.  Don't  cable 
me;  you  can't  say  things  in  a  cable  that  I  am 
rather  sick  to  see  all  written  out.  But  do  write 
quickly — quickly  to  your  Rhoda,  who  is  willing 
to  'grant  to  them  their  place  and  give  you 
yours.' '  I  thought  that  quotation  from  his 
letter  as  a  clincher  was  rather  clever. 

"Turn  turn,  ta  da!  ta  da,  turn  turn!  turn 
turn,  ta  da!  ta  da,  turn  turn!  Boom! — boom!— 
boom!" 

"Big  Ben,"  I  said,  smiling  through  some 
thing  like  tears  as  I  snuggled  down  in  the  covers, 
"you  can  do  your  worst;  my  conscience  is  clear 
at  last." 

From  that  day  I  took  in  a  shipping  paper, 
and  figured  if  my  letter  caught  the  French  boat 
how  soon  the  English  steamer  would  bring  an 
answer.  I  couldn't  reasonably  expect  one  under 
thirteen  days;  and  as  that  was  an  unlucky  num 
ber,  I  agonized  between  a  willingness  to  take 
that  chance  or  hoping  it  would  be  fourteen.  Of 
course,  I  wasn't  concerned  about  the  substance 
of  the  reply;  but  I  naturally  was  curious  to 
learn  just  how  Aaron  would  take  the  surprise. 
Then,  too,  I  feared  he  might  rush  over  and  want 

149 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  marry  me  straight  off,  and  once  I  almost 
cabled  him  to  return  the  letter  unopened. 

I  went  out  shopping  with  Frederica  instead, 
and  while  we  bought  very  little  we  laughed  a 
great  deal.  It  was  so  easy  to  laugh,  for  that 
was  the  seventh  day  and  I  knew  my  letter 
had  reached  home.  Home  ?  Anyway,  that  high 
office  far  down-town,  where  the  ticker  goes  on 
forever,  like  the  brook  and  my  clock,  and  one 
can  watch  the  ships  sail  down  the  harbor  on 
their  way  to  England.  Frederica  said  if  I  didn't 
stop  staring  at  the  lingerie  in  the  windows  I 
would  attract  a  crowd.  She  said  I  was  shame 
less,  and  this  frightened  me  into  thinking  she 
suspected  something,  although  she  had  never 
been  known  to  do  such  a  thing  before.  So  I 
looked  at  mackintoshes  for  the  rest  of  the  after 
noon.  I  really  bought  one  and  wore  it  out  to 
the  dressmaker's,  for  of  course  it  was  raining, 
and  there  in  the  exuberance  of  my  spirits  I  told 
her  a  joke  which  I  had  no  right  to  do. 

In  America,  if  one  is  sufficiently  unbending, 
one  can  tell  jokes  to  all  classes  and  run  a  fair 
chance  of  being  understood.  Over  here,  if  we 
only  exercise  a  little  discrimination  with  our 
anecdotes,  we  shall  probably  have  our  story 
capped  by  a  better  one,  but  slopping  over  in  our 
150 


THE    ACTRESS 

humor,  as  we  always  are,  we  tell  our  tales  at 
random — and  get  what  we  deserve.  The  dress 
maker  remarked  that  it  was  a  pleasant  day, 
wasn't  it,  modom  ?  (All  salesladies  say  "mod- 
om,"  just  as  ours  say  "cawsh!")  I  shook  the 
rain  from  off  my  new  rain-coat  and  asked  if 
she  had  ever  heard  of  the  Englishman  who, 
after  three  months  of  sunny  weather  in  the 
States,  finally  reached  his  native  heath  in  a 
cold,  windy,  miserable  drizzle.  "Ah,"  said  the 
Briton,  happily,  gazing  up  at  the  dreary  heavens, 
"none  of  your  damned  blue  sky!"  It  was  an 
old  story,  and  I  did  not  expect  much  response. 
Frederica  obligingly  showed  that  I  had  arrived 
at  the  end  by  a  little  giggle,  and  the  modiste 
drew  in  her  breath  with  a  gasp  of  horror. 
"Aoh,"  she  commented,  "he  shouldn't  have 
used  that  bad  word,  should  he,  modom  ?"  And 
that  taught  me  a  lesson,  for  cursing  is  not  done 
in  England. 

It  did  Frederica  and  me  a  great  deal  of 
good,  and  carried  us  joyously  down  to  the  the 
atre,  for  she  had  dined  with  me.  I  was  very 
glad  to  reach  my  workshop  those  days,  strangely 
enough,  not  from  my  love  of  it,  but  for  the  time 
it  killed.  "Six  days  more,  anyway,"  I  sighed, 
as  I  entered  my  chintz -hung  dressing-room. 


THE    ACTRESS 

Amelia  had  evidently  stepped  out,  for  the  room 
was  empty;  but  there,  ostentatiously  propped 
against  the  pin-cushion,  was  a  white  envelope, 
blue-lettered,  and  addressed  to  me.  With  a 
great  throb  of  pleasure  I  seized  the  cablegram 
and  tore  it  open.  "He  couldn't  wait,  he 
couldn't  wait,"  I  whispered,  and  then— 

"Cable  quite  sufficient.  Will  support  my  wife 
without  assistance,  thank  you.  From  present  situa 
tion,  realize  my  condition  not  as  bad  as  might  be. 

"ADAMS." 

That  was  all.  I  read  it  twice,  and  then  count 
ed  the  words — there  were  twenty-eight  including 
the  address;  after  that  I  thrust  the  hateful  thing 
into  the  fire  and  turned  to  my  make-up.  Fred- 
erica  said  when  the  curtain  had  fallen  that  I  had 
given  quite  my  best  performance  yet,  and  she 
thought  my  outing  did  me  good. 

Then  I  drove  "home,"  up  Pall  Mall,  past  St. 
James's,  around  the  King's  house  to  my  flick 
ering  coal  fire,  with  the  remnants  of  a  joint  for 
supper  and  two  big  chairs  to  sit  in  for  the  rest 
of  my  life. 


VIII 

I  WROTE  Aaron  Adams  eight  letters,  but  I 
sent  only  one  of  them;  perhaps  it  was  not  the 
best  one,  but  I  had  torn  up  the  others.     This 
was  it: 

"Your  cable  was  received,  and  I  was  glad  to  note 
that  you  are  accepting  your  'present  situation'  with 
philosophy.  I  hope  you  will  feel  that  way  always, 
especially  when  you  come  home  tired  from  your  of 
fice,  enter  your  empty  apartments,  and  sit  down  to  a 
solitary  dinner.  And  I  sincerely  trust  that  you  will 
not  miss  me  when  the  stroke  of  eleven  arouses  you 
from  your  evening's  reverie,  and  you  realize  that  I 
am  taking  off  my  grease-paint  with  cold-cream  and 
preparing  to  go  out  to  supper.  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
hard;  but  since  it  has  seemed  best  to  sever  the  cord 
that  has  bound  us  so  closely  together,  I  must  insist 
that  you  make  no  attempt  to  write  me,  for  as  sure  as 
I  see  your  square  hand-writing  I  shall  send  the  letter 
back  to  you  unopened.  I  do  not  dare  you  to  do  this, 
knowing  that  you  never  take  a  dare,  and  I  solemnly 
tell  you  in  advance  that  all  efforts  to  apologize  will  be 
futile.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  our  paths  diverge 


THE    ACTRESS 

from  the  reception  of  the  cable  rather  than  from  your 
receiving  of  my  letter.  Mine,  alas  (the  path),  shall 
be  trod  alone — all  alone. 

"Very  respectfully, 

"R.  MILLER." 

It  wasn't  a  very  Machiavellian  letter — I  never 
shone  in  rhetoric  at  high-school  or  in  dissimu 
lation  anywhere;  but  I  think  I  can  flatter  my 
self  that  it  hid  the  blow  he  had  dealt  me,  and- 1 
was  glad  afterward  that  I  didn't  let  it  go  with 
the  postscript,  which  was:  "Oh,  Aaron,  how 
could  you!" 

I  wept  buckets  of  tears  the  first  week,  not 
over  Aaron's  refusal,  but  because  it  was  very 
sad  to  have  one's  unselfishness  so  misinterpret 
ed.  Yet  all  the  time  I  kept  telling  myself  how 
thankful  I  ought  to  be  that  I  was  not  in  love 
with  him,  when  it  would  have  been  real  anguish, 
and  not  hurt  pride,  that  was  troubling  me.  I 
was  glad,  too,  that  I  had  burned  the  cable,  and 
I  often  wished  I  could  burn  the  words  out  of  my 
mind  also;  but  there  they  stuck,  cultivating  a 
habit  of  rising  up  to  confront  me  at  the  most 
absurd  moments. 

That  last  sentence,  in  which,  not  content. to 
humiliate  me,  he  went  on  to  insult  me,  always 
chose  the  second  act  to  make  itself  prominent. 


THE    ACTRESS 

There  I  was  in  the  dance-hall,  singing  hymns 
and  sipping  fire-water— doing  enough,  any  one 
would  think,  to  keep  my  mind  occupied,  yet 
all  the  time  between  my  droning  and  sips  those 
hateful  words  beat  themselves  out: 

"Oh,  Beulah  land 

(From  present  situation), 
Sweet  Beulah  land 

(Realize  my  condition), 
As  on  the  highest 

(Not  so  bad) 
Mount  I  stand 

(As  might  be), 
And  view  the  shining 

(The  wicked  dog), 
Glorious  shore 

(Means  he's  well  out  of  it), 
My  heaven,  my  home 

(Well,  so  am  I) 
For  evermore 

(Gracious,  I  wonder   if  I've  been  singing!)." 

"Bella" — in  a  whisper  to  the  leading  lady, 
who  had  converted  me  -  "  have  I  sung  that 
song  ?" 

Bella,  also  in  a  whisper,  while  gazing  at  her 
convert  sorrowfully:  "Of  course;  don't  you  hear 
155 


THE    ACTRESS 

them  laughing.     You  aren't  getting  mechanical 
already,  are  you  ?" 

That  "getting  mechanical"  was  a  sort  of  a 
slap,  or  intended  as  such;  but  to  become  so  is 
nothing  more  awful  than  the  result  of  a  long  run, 
when  we  have  all  grown  so  accustomed  to  our 
lines  that  if  we  really  stopped  and  thought  what 
we  were  saying  we  would  probably  cease  to  say 
it.  The  inflections  remain  the  same  in  the  voice, 
we  throw  the  same  amount  of  vigor  into  our 
work,  faithfully  follow  the  same  business,  but 
our  sub-consciousness  is  on  a  trail  of  thought 
all  its  own. 

Sometimes  our  inner  thoughts  are  so  strong 
that  they  struggle  to  the  surface  and  express 
themselves  in  words,  and  that  is  all  wrong — 
they  must  stay  in  their  cellars.  I  remember,  a 
few  years  ago,  a  buxom-looking  actress,  who  was 
playing  a  termagant,  exclaiming,  in  the  midst  of 
her  vituperation :  "  I  don't  care,  I  love  him."  We 
all  thought  it  a  tremendous  joke,  for  she  was  of 
the  strong,  common-sense  kind,  and  we  were 
amazed  when  she  burst  into  tears  upon  our  joy 
ously  telling  her  of  the  interpolation.  So,  of 
course,  we  all  "pretended"  immediately  that  we 
had  made  it  up  just  to  tease  her.  But  in  the 
course  of  the  summer  that  woman  married  a 

156 


THE    ACTRESS 

criminal,  a  frightful  character,  and  after  that  we 
always  referred  to  her  as  "Poor,  dear  Sadie!" 

I  thought  of  her  the  night  I  spoke  to  Bella 
more  understandingly  than  I  ever  had  before, 
and  somehow  I  found  the  tears  coming  into  my 
eyes.  They  must  have  been  much  in  evidence, 
for  although  my  comedy  scene  went  as  well  as 
ever,  I  heard  a  woman  who  sat  in  one  of  the 
boxes  say:  "What  a  pity  she's  so  ugly,  she  has 
such  swimming  eyes!" 

Oh,  those  proscenium  boxes  of  the  old- 
fashioned  theatres!  Each  scooping  out  a  quar 
ter  circle  of  either  side  of  the  stage,  so  that  the 
occupants  are  practically  of  us,  save  that  their 
manners  are  not  so  good,  for,  while  we  only 
whisper  about  them,  they  express  themselves 
with  brutal  frankness  about  us,  and  in  a  speak 
ing  voice.  Being  built  at  this  angle,  the  back  of 
the  box  is  almost  against  the  audience,  so  that 
foolish  bridal  couples  would  greedily  take  a  box 
to  themselves  occasionally  and  sit  at  the  back, 
he  with  his  arm  close  around  her,  and  she  snug 
gling  up  to  him  through  all  the  pathetic  parts,  or 
looking  up  into  his  eyes  and  squeezing  his  hand. 
Of  course  they  had  no  idea  that  the  actors  and 
actresses  could  see  them,  since  the  audience 
couldn't;  but  it  filled  me  with  a  most  awful  rage 

157 


THE    ACTRESS 

in  those  days.  I  suppose  they  thought  nobody 
ever  loved  anybody  before — least  of  all,  not  an 
ugly  half-breed. 

Then  after  that  I  would  go  limp — of  course 
this  was  all  inside  of  me;  that  stupid  audience 
never  knew,  not  even  a  critic  would  know — for 
who,  please  tell  me,  did  love  me  ?  Did  Larry 
Chester  ?  I  felt  when  he  was  around  that  if 
I  pushed  him  my  hand  would  go  right  through 
his  body,  as  though  he  were  something  very 
nice,  but  frothy,  like  whipped  cream  or  soda- 
water. 

Larry  was  a  joy  for  three  hours,  and,  though 
he  didn't  know  the  etiquette  of  the  stage,  would 
move  during  some  one's  important  line,  jump  in 
on  a  laugh,  or  else  wait  so  long  for  it  that  one 
felt  a  fool,  still  he  was  pleasant  to  play  with. 
To  one  line  of  the  author's  he  spoke  two  under 
his  breath,  not  because  he  had  anything  in 
particular  to  say,  but  because  he  wished  to  show 
how  easy  it  was  for  him  to  act.  Now,  any  player 
can  do  this  as  much  as  he  likes— until  the  stage- 
manager  discovers  him — so  long  as  he  is  whis 
pering  through  the  action  of  the  play  and  not 
the  lines.  There  Larry,  being  a  novice,  did  not 
discriminate,  and  while  no  game  actor  would 
complain  to  the  stage-manager,  there  were  many 

158 


THE    ACTRESS 

wordy  wars  with  the  young  gentleman  in  the 
privacy  of  our  dressing-rooms. 

He  was  always  base  enough  to  apologize  im 
mediately,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  quarrel 
with  him,  and  he  followed  up  his  apology  with 
tons  of  flowers.  Yet  with  all  his  inexperience 
he  was  so  instinctively  an  actor  that  he  was  not 
in  the  smallest  degree  discouraged  by  my  nightly 
hideous  appearance.  "I  cannot  like  Bella,  I 
cannot,"  he  confided  to  me  one  matinee,  as  we 
were  both  industriously  tending  bar  in  the  play; 
"she  cannot  act." 

For  a  moment  I  looked  fondly  at  him.  Here 
was  a  boy — fluff,  perhaps — who  was  so  much 
bigger  in  his  views  than  Aaron  that  he  could 
forget  my  ridiculous  role  for  the  reason  that  I 
played  it  fairly  well.  Young  Mr.  Chester,  see 
ing  my  melting  eyes,  squeezed  my  stained  hand 
under  the  shelter  of  the  high  bar.  "Little 
thing,"  he  murmured. 

At  this,  quite  to  Larry's  surprise  and  mine, 
a  wave  of  resentment  swept  over  me,  and  I 
snatched  my  hand  away  as  though  he  were  poach 
ing  on  preserves  that  were  not  his.  And  yet  if 
not  his,  whose  ?— besides  mine,  of  course — and 
what  did  I  care  if  my  finger-tips  were  or  were 
not  clasped  by  a  silly  boy  ?  "  Protecting  my- 
159 


THE    ACTRESS 

self  for  whom  ?"  I  bitterly  interrogated,  as  I 
poured  out  Long  Bill's  whiskey — and  I  gave  him 
an  unusually  large  drink,  which  caused  him  to 
protest  under  his  breath,  for  they  all  hate  the 
brown  sugar  and  water,  which  they  must  down 
with  a  merry  "Here's  how!" 

Larry,  as  usual,  took  his  unique  methods  of 
revenge.  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  treat 
a  little  boy  like  that,"  he  whispered,  as  we  were 
preparing  Bruce  Farquhar's  treat  for  the  crowd 
and  gathering  in  the  tin  money.  "If you  don't 
apologize  by  the  time  I  reach  that  dowager  with 
her  tea-tray  on  the  box-rail,  I'm  going  to  upset 
it  as  I  pass." 

The  dowager  occupied  one  of  the  stage  boxes, 
and  so  enjoyed  her  tea,  which  had  been  served 
between  the  acts,  that  she  had  gone  on  pouring 
and  stirring  and  clattering  the  china  after  the 
curtain  was  up.  This  was  rude  of  the  dowager, 
and  Larry  intended  to  administer  justice  by  a 
slight  side  -  step  as  he  swung  round  with  the 
glasses,  and  in  this  way  pay  me  back,  for  I  loved 
model  deportment  on  the  stage,  and  he  knew  it. 

Sure  that  he  would  make  good  his  threat,  I 
sued  for  peace,  but  while  there  was  much  satis 
faction  in  Larry's  breast  there  was  none  in 
mine.  I  was  feeling  in  those  days  like  a  loosely 

1 60 


THE    ACTRESS 

jointed  doll  who  sits  down  suddenly  and  flops 
about,  only  the  dismemberment  was  not  in  my 
body  but  my  mind.  Above  all,  I  resented  this 
invasion  into  the  theatre  of  my  outside  griefs. 
Griefs  ?  Well,  let  it  go  at  that.  I  tried  to  be 
lieve  that  annoyances  more  fitly  described  the 
condition. 

Heretofore,  when  I  swung  open  the  old  stage 
door,  the  rush  of  stale,  moist  air  that  greeted 
me  would  sweep  back  the  little  troubles  that  are 
of  real  life,  and  for  the  few  hours  while  I  went 
through  my  pretend  they  would  leave  me.  They 
might  loiter  about,  perhaps,  in  the  narrow  court 
until  I  came  out,  but  then  they  found  me  re 
freshed  and  ready  to  grapple  with  them  after 
my  playtime.  Now  they  were  with  me  con 
stantly,  and,  what  was  most  curious  of  all,  I 
wanted  them  with  me;  even  while  I  railed  against 
them,  I  hugged  them  close. 

Frederica  came  into  my  dressing-room  as  I 
was  blowing  my  nose  very  hard  one  night — I 
had  a  cold— and  said  I  ought  to  go  out  into 
society;  that  was  the  only  real  way  in  life  to 
forget  one's  difficulties.  Once  when  Frederica 
was  car-sick  I  had  offered  her  a  soda  mint,  and 
she  had  replied  that  she  didn't  think  she  was 
well  enough  to  take  it.  I  reminded  her  of  this, 

161 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  asked  if  the  remedy  would  not  be  worse 
than  the  illness;  but  she  said  it  stood  to  reason 
it  was  a  good  thing,  for  hundreds  of  people  were 
at  it  all  the  time,  and  they  must  be  seeking  dis 
traction  from  greater  troubles  or  they  wouldn't 
be  there — "it"  and  "  there  "  vaguely  meaning 
society. 

Frederica  admitted  that  she  herself  had  no 
troubles,  and  was  going  about  seeking  materials 
for  a  book.  That  book  had  been  her  excuse 
for  doing  anything  she  wanted  ever  since  I 
knew  her;  but  I  didn't  care  to  touch  on  this,  for 
she  had  been  splendid  after  the  arrival  of  Aaron's 
cable,  never  asking  me  the  contents  or  why  I 
had  such  a  cold,  but  just  giving  me  little  hugs 
now  and  then,  and  not  pleading  for  my  con 
fidence  beyond  saying  five  or  six  times  a  week: 
"If  you  have  anything  to  tell  me,  Rhoda,  don't 
hesitate." 

She  went  on  to  assert  that  so  far  as  sorrows 
were  concerned,  hers  only  began  when  she  got 
into  a  tea-room  and  was  supposed  to  hold  a 
plate  of  cakes,  cup  and  saucer,  and  an  animated 
conversation  all  at  the  same  time.  So  we  reso 
lutely  decided  that  if  we  did  go  about  together 
we  would  each  secure  a  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room  table  and  have  our  meal  comfortably. 

162 


THE    ACTRESS 

That  sounded  like  a  speculation  to  me,  and 
speculation  reminded  me  of  Aaron,  though  a 
corner  in  tables  was  hardly  what  he  would  go 
in  for.  But  for  the  moment  the  thought  made 
my  cold  worse.  Frederica  noticed  it,  but  said 
nothing  beyond  completing  arrangements  to 
take  me  to  a  large  reception  the  following  after 
noon.  "Just  let  go,"  she  concluded — "just  let 
go  and  enjoy  yourself." 

Since  she  was  so  sincere  about  it,  I  tried  to  be 
also;  although,  to  my  imagining,  the  last  place  in 
which  to  let  go  would  be  a  London  drawing-room. 
I  found,  the  next  afternoon,  however,  that,  so  far 
as  muscle-relaxing  was  concerned,  I  could  have 
let  go  easily,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  one  or 
two  fat  old  ladies  did  lie  back  and  rest  upon  the 
crowd,  which,  being  very  dense,  still  kept  them 
in  a  horizontal  position. 

Our  names  were  called  out  at  the  door — at 
least,  mine  was;  but  Frederica's,  being  complex, 
was  politely  mumbled.  Frederica  said  any  one 
with  a  name  like  Miller  was  cut  out  by  divine 
intention  for  London  drawing-rooms,  and  that 
I  really  ought  to  be  known  as  the  "footman's 
joy."  We  were  no  sooner  beyond  the  doors 
than  we  were  caught  up  in  a  great  crush  of  hu 
manity  all  edging  in  the  same  direction.  "Are 
163 


THE    ACTRESS 

we  going  toward  the  hostesses  ?"  I  asked,  for 
this  was  a  club  function. 

"Gracious!  no,"  replied  Frederica;  "to  the 
tea-rooms.  It's  after  five  o'clock,  and  these 
people  are  almost  frantic." 

This  was  not  the  whirl  of  gayety  I  had  looked 
forward  to  being  swept  into.  It  savored  more 
of  the  treadmill,  except  that  with  a  treadmill 
there  is  only  the  mill  to  step  on.  I  found  myself 
wondering  at  the  remarkable  way  an  English 
man  has  of  accomplishing  his  purpose  and  yet 
being  polite  about  it.  Seven  times  one  large,  lank 
creature  stepped  on  my  foot.  Seven  times  he 
said  "Sorry,"  yet  he  never  gave  place  to  me, 
but  with  his  eyes  concentrated  upon  the  buffet- 
table  in  the  far  room  minutely  yet  steadily  ad 
vanced. 

When  we  finally  reached  the  tea-room  we 
could  get  nothing  until  we  were  discovered  by 
two  men  whom  Frederica  had  met  at  a  relative's, 
and  after  a  series  of  "Sorrys"  and  "My  faults," 
they  managed  to  wrest  tea-cups  and  cake  from 
other  groping  hands  and  fed  us  bountifully. 

By  the  elaborate  rolling  of  Frederica's  eyes 

I  could  see  which  of  the  young  men  she  had 

picked  out  for  me,  and  by  the  manner  in  which 

she  hung  upon  his  words  I  realized  anew  her 

164 


THE    ACTRESS 

sweet  generosity  in  giving  me  the  one  she  her 
self  preferred.  That  alone  would  have  put  me 
out  of  the  running;  besides,  he  was  not  of  the 
startling  type  of  Englishman  that  we  seldom 
see  but  read  of  in  our  funny  papers.  I  admit, 
having  accepted  the  Earl  of  Pawtucket  as  our 
standard,  we  Americans  are  hard  to  please,  but 
this  man  of  Frederica's  had  spent  his  boyhood 
in  Australia,  with  kangaroos  frisking  around 
his  front  yard,  and  he  did  not  mistake  my 
frivolity  when  I  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't 
leap  about  a  little  just  to  show  us  how  they 
went. 

The  other  man,  however,  emitted  an  expostu- 
latory  "I  say,"  and  this  prejudiced  him  greatly 
in  my  favor.  His  name  was  St.  John  Melford, 
and  when  I  asked  him  if  they  called  him  "Saint" 
or  "John,"  he  said  they  called  him  "Bunny."  I 
liked  that,  too,  for  all  of  Ouida's  big  men  were 
called  by  foolish  names.  He  was  good-looking, 
though  I  can't  tell  why,  for  his  face  seemed  to 
have  so  many  more  valleys  than  ridges  that  I 
wondered  how  it  could  remain  a  face  at  all. 
Only  his  nose  saved  him ;  it  was  like  our  own  dear 
Highbridge  over  the  Harlem.  As  for  the  well- 
tubbed  appearance  you  hear  so  much  about,  I 
know  he  employed  not  only  the  chair-effect  but 
165  ' 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  saucepan  as  well.  And  his  neck  had  the 
raw  appearance  of  those  who  use  soft-soap. 

He  managed  his  tea  and  cake  beautifully, 
roaring  at  the  same  time.  He  roared  at  every 
thing  I  said,  not  after  I  said  it  nor  during  the 
saying  of  it,  but  before  I  had  made  any  sort 
of  a  start.  If  I  had  not  been  looking  for  just 
his  sort,  and  realizing  it  was  like  the  hunt  for 
the  needle  in  the  haystack  as  a  rule,  I  should 
have  been  annoyed.  I  suppose,  poor  dear, 
he  thought  his  loud  bursts  of  laughter  were 
what  we  Americans  craved.  I  managed  to  get 
through  one  anecdote,  however,  before  he  knew 
it  was  going  to  be  a  joke,  and  indeed  it  was  not 
intended  to  be  more  than  an  idle  pleasantry 
until  he  neatly  capped  it. 

We  had  been  talking  of  Indians,  and  of  their 
frequent  appearance  on  the  stage  of  to-day. 
"Of  course,  I'm  only  a  half-breed  in  our  play," 
I  explained;  "but  you  may  remember  what 
the  young  tenderfoot  says  of  my  father,  'Her 
papa  was  a  full-blooded  Indian  squaw/'  I 
smiled  a  little  feebly,  and  Mr.  St.  John  Melford 
looked  interested. 

"Yes,"  he  said;   "and  wwheT 

After  that  we  went  home,  for  nothing  better 
could  happen.  Frederica  and  I  had  intended 
166 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  walk,  and  we  rather  thought  the  Britons 
might  come  along,  too;  but  Mr.  Melford  so  in 
sisted  that  we  take  a  cab,  running  to  get  one 
himself,  that  we  did  not  urge  the  matter. 

"It  isn't  correct  to  walk  on  t^ie  street  with 
young  women,"  whispered  Frederica. 

"For  whom — the  young  women?"  I  whis 
pered  back. 

"I  don't  know.     Get  in." 

I  got  in,  and  extended  invitations  to  tea. 
"The  landlady  can  chaperone  us,"  I  supple 
mented,  as  Mr.  Melford  looked  uncertain.  Then 
we  drove  on. 

"Frederica,"  I  said  to  her,  "that  Bunny  man 
insisted  upon  getting  this  cab.  Do  you  sup 
pose  he  paid  for  it  ?  I  shall  certainly  be  an 
noyed  if  he  has." 

He  hadn't.  I  ran  into  the  dressing-room  of 
one  of  the  Englishmen  that  night  to  chatter  a 
little  while  he  made  up.  He  had  a  Japanese 
kimono  on,  and  it  was  a  little  incongruous  with 
a  miner's  beard,  but  we  never  think  of  those 
things  in  the  theatre.  The  -dresser  discreetly 
withdrew  —  they  always  have  a  way  of  doing 
that — but  I  was  asking  the  player  nothing  worse 
than  which  would  have  been> , totally  ruined,  the 
young  man  or  the  young  woman,  if  we  had 
167 


THE    ACTRESS 

walked  together,  and  what  I  should  have  done 
had  Mr.  St.  John  Melford  paid  for  the  cab. 

He,  my  social  referee,  was  one  of  those  many 
hundreds  of  British  actors  of  good  family  who, 
since  the  Church  has  already  given  a  shelter  to 
one  of  their  generation,  takes  the  stage  instead. 
They  always  have  a  "little  money,"  for  the 
truest  thing  in  an  English  novel  is  the  maiden 
aunt  who  suddenly  passes  away  leaving  Mount- 
ford  and  Doris  enough  to  live  on.  Even  so, 
with  such  obstacles  to  overcome  as  a  private 
income  and  the  reserve  of  several  centuries,  they 
make  good  actors,  and  one  wonders  how  much 
better  they  would  be  if  dire  necessity  augmented 
their  ambitions. 

As  an  umpire  on  the  correct  thing,  the  Eng 
lishman  was  particularly  useful,  and  being  well 
acquainted  with  our  mania  for  reasons,  often 
went  beyond  that  petrifying  phrase:  "It  isn't 
done."  ' 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "you  could  walk  with 
me,  and  neither  of  us  would  be  harmed.  In  our 
capacity  as  actors  we  are  allowed  liberties  that 
the  young  unmarried  men  and  women  of  the 
upper  class  are  not.  And  even  they  could  walk 
on  the  street,  but  then  it  wouldn't  be  quite  nice. 
Those  chaps  to-day,  since  they  entertained  a 

1 68 


THE    ACTRESS 

great  respect  for  you,  showed  it  by  putting  you 
in  a  cab." 

"And  the  hansom  ?"  I  queried.  "Understand, 
I  don't  want  him  or  any  other  man  to  pay  for 
my  cab.  But  what  if  Mr.  Melford  had  ?  Should 
I  have  committed  hara-kiri  from  the  disgrace 
of  it  ?" 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  done  that,"  said  my 
friend.  "But  there  never  would  have  been  the 
smallest  danger  of  his  paying  for  your  cab;  he 
respects  you  far  too  much." 

I  went  wearily  to  my  room.  Try  as  I  might, 
the  vision  of  a  broad,  clean-shaven  creature 
rose  up  before  me  slipping  surreptitious  dollar 
bills  into  the  willing  palm  of  the  driver,  and 
me,  pleasantly  inside  the  cab,  with  no  thought 
of  hara-kiri. 

Although  it  was  late,  I  completed  a  letter 
which  I  had  started  a  few  nights  before,  then 
lost  my  nerve.  It  was  not  to  Aaron.  This  was 
to  a  friend  of  mine — and  his — the  daughter  of 
one  of  those  families  where  a  poor  working-girl 
like  myself  could  always  find  a  welcome  place 
at  the  late  Sunday  supper.  Hester  was  her 
name — the  one  who  took  the  footman  to  the 
theatre — and  her  father,  old  Charles  Bateman, 
had  fought  some  Wall  Street  battles  shoulder 
12  169 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  shoulder  with  young  Aaron  Adams.  As  a 
result  they  were  fast  friends;  not  that  this  was 
the  reason  for  my  writing  Hester  and  asking  her 
just  how  she  spent  her  time,  and  just  who  came 
to  Sunday  supper  and  all  about  him,  for  I  had 
promised  that  she  should  hear  from  me.  So 
Amelia  took  out  my  letter,  and  as  the  call-boy 
was  droning,  "Overture  and  beginners,  please," 
I  fell  upon  my  make-up,  guiltily  mindful  that 
these  grease  -  paint  manipulations  had  been 
abridged  from  one  hour's  time  to  fifteen  min 
utes  as  the  weeks  went  on. 

For  the  next  fortnight  I  went  very  deeply  into 
society.  I  was  determined  to  forget  everything 
—at  least,  until  Hester's  answer  arrived.  I  ban 
ished  Aaron  completely  from  my  mind,  which 
wasn't  very  hard  to  do,  for  I  couldn't  imagine 
him  at  about  first-cocktail  time  neatly  drinking 
tea  in  a  drawing-room  full  of  knickknacks  and 
women.  And  St.  John  Melford  never  put  sugar 
in  my  cup  without  the  picture  coming  into  my 
head,  although,  as  I  said  before,  I  immediately 
banished  the  thought  with  a  smile.  Then  my 
constant  attendant,  handing  me  the  cake,  would 
observe: 

"I  say  now,  you're  crinkling  up  your  eyes 
again  and  your  nose  is  wrinkling  and  the  cor- 

170 


THE    ACTRESS 

nets  of  your  mouth  are  turning  up.  Is  it  a 
hoax?"  " 

This  shows  that  Sinjun,  as  they  pronounce  it, 
and  I  had  been  getting  on.  Still  he  had  not 
advanced  with  any  strides,  and  whenever  he 
looked  as  though  about  to  take  a  long  step 
forward  I  got  sick  around  the  heart  and  would 
put  down  my  teacup  and  ask  Frederica,  going 
home  in  the  cab,  if  she  supposed  all  those  wom 
en  making  the  rounds  of  an  afternoon  had  mar 
ried  their  husbands  because  they  were  well- 
tubbed  and  used  soft-soap  ? 

Frederica,  who  was  very  deeply  involved  in 
the  kangaroo  man,  said  love  was  the  only  thing 
in  the  world,  and  those  wrho  couldn't  get  it 
had  tea  instead.  Some,  she  went  on,  with  a 
disgusting  grin  of  happiness,  had  both— and  I 
knew  Frederica  was  thinking  of  herself. 

Her  relative,  the  aunt  of  the  composer,  was 
so  strict  with  her  that  she  seldom  had  an  op 
portunity  of  seeing  him  alone,  or,  as  she  put  it, 
of  having  her  tea  in  peace.  So  I  often  had 
them  over  to  luncheon,  and  sometimes  Mr. 
Melford,  too.  He  came  very  uneasily  at  first, 
but,  once  having  done  the  thing,  found  that  it 
could  be,  and  wished  to  keep  at  it — which  is 
very  British. 


THE    ACTRESS 

The  two  weeks  passed  between  the  sending 
of  my  letter  to  Hester  Bateman  and  the  day 
for  its  answer,  and  to  my  surprise  her  reply  did 
not  come.  Then  I  told  myself  it  did  not  catch 
the  boat,  and  I  would  have  to  wait  two  or  three 
days  for  the  next  mail;  but  it  did  not  come 
then,  and  I  feared  Hester  had  gone  to  their 
country  place  on  Long  Island,  so  perhaps  was 
not  giving  Sunday -night  suppers  at  all,  and 
could  not  tell  me  who  came  to  them.  This 
drove  me  into  a  sort  of  despairing  fever,  which 
in  turn  sent  me  flying  around  to  more  teas,  as 
Frederica  declared  the  rest  of  them  were  doing. 
And  when  I  heard  one  pretty  woman  say  she 
had  kept  ten  engagements  that  day  I  knew  that 
she  must  be  very  wretched  indeed. 

But  what  terrified  me  most,  as  I  was  flying 
about,  was  the  uselessness  of  the  game;  I  was 
making  no  headway  of  any  kind.  I  did  not 
seem  any  nearer  to  a  knowledge  of  these  Eng 
lish  people  than  when  I  first  met  them. 

They  were  perfectly  courteous,  cordial  even, 
and  intensely  interesting  if  a  limited  variety  of 
expressions  could  suggest  such  a  state.  I  am 
inclined  to  think,  however,  that  only  the  foot 
men  and  parlor-maids  who  announced  me  ever 
knew  my  real  name;  the  hostesses  generally  let 
172 


THE    ACTRESS 

it  be  understood  that  I  was  Sarah  Fall-in-the- 
Mud,  of  the  Prince's  Theatre,  and  I  believe  that 
the  impression  which  most  of  them  carried 
away  was  that  I,  a  genuine  half-breed,  bore  the 
rightful  name  of  Miss  Mud. 

They  all  talked  acting  just  as  they  did  pict 
ures  and  music.  I  don't  know  how  much  they 
knew  of  the  last  two,  since  I  know  nothing,  nor 
shall  I  say,  being  polite,  how  much  they  knew 
of  acting;  at  least,  they  gave  it  the  place  it 
deserved  among  the  arts,  and  I,  as  a  humble  ex 
ponent,  was  grateful  for  that.  At  times  I  would 
slip  away  from  Frederica,  who  would  be  telling 
an  interested  group  of  old  ladies  how  hard  it 
was  to  say  the  same  words  over  night  after 
night  and  keep  your  whole  soul  in  it  -  -"Come 
on,  girls,  he's  going  to  treat,"  she  probably  re 
ferred  to — and  sit  by  myself  in  a  corner.  There 
was  generally  an  old  lady  for  me  also,  one  who 
was  too  weak  in  her  trembling  knees  to  join  the 
circle,  but  who  would  no  more  have  missed  the 
"At  home"  of  a  friend  than  she  would  Sunday 
service. 

They  were  often  pitifully  garbed,  if  the  word 
"  pitiful "  can  be  applied  to  those  of  a  race  as 
perfectly  sure  of  themselves  as  the  English;  but 
the  absolute  lack  of  discrimination  between  the 


THE    ACTRESS 

richly  dressed  and  the  poorly  dressed  is  the 
finest  thing  to  be  seen  in  a  London  drawing- 
room.  I  don't  believe  even  the  old  ladies 
minded.  They  knew  that  the  blood  of  a  Stuart 
raced — no,  crawled — through  their  veins,  or  that 
Norman-French  was  the  language  their  people 
once  thought  in.  They  knew  it  and  every  one 
else  in  the  room  knew  it,  except  Miss  Mud,  and 
she  didn't  matter. 

They  were  always  very  eager  for  the  terri 
ble  recitations,  were  the  Vere  de  Veres.  They 
would  hold  their  cups  and  saucers  very  quietly 
while  some  awful  person  would  be  telling  us 
it  was  "On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue."  Every 
single  person  would  let  his  tea  cool  to  do  the 
same  thing,  and  applaud  afterward  with  the 
most  wonderful  dexterity.  I  often  thought  how 
sensible  it  would  be  to  put  clappers  in  their 
heels  like  clog-dancers,  and  in  that  way  shake 
out  a  little  applause  while  firmly  grasping  their 
teacups.  I  suggested  this  to  one  of  the  old 
ladies,  but  she  said  none  of  her  people  had 
ever  danced  clogs,  and  then  tottered  away. 

Whenever  I  begin  saying  things  I  know  I 
shouldn't  I  realize  a  crisis  is  approaching.  If  I 
had  been  able  to  cry  out  all  the  flippancies  that 
were  raging  within  me  I  know  I  would  have 

174 


THE    ACTRESS 

felt  better;  but  there  was  really  no  one  to  say 
them  to,  for  I  didn't  want  to  appear  ungrateful 
to  Frederica,  and  besides  she  was  growing  very 
English,  quite  wrongly  saying  "hawndsome" 
and  "cawn,"  and  taking  at  least  an  Australian 
view  of  things,  so  I  knew  I  would  receive  small 
sympathy  from  her. 

What  was  wearing  upon  me  most  was  the 
even  deportment  of  all  the  men  and  women  I 
met.  At  first  I  liked  it — good  manners  are  never 
to  be  sneered  at;  but  as  four  weeks  passed  and 
Hester's  letter  did  not  come,  I  wondered,  peev 
ishly,  how  long  they  could  maintain  their  re 
serve — and  how  long  I  could.  Surely,  I  used 
to  think,  there  must  be  some  tempestuous 
hearts  about,  or,  to  go  more  deeply,  some  little 
romances  that  did  not  have  their  sum  and  sub 
stance  in  haw-haws,  tinkling  laughs,  and  rising 
inflections. 

The  daily  paper  proved  that.  Whenever  the 
restraint  of  a  drawing-room  became  insuffer 
able  I  went  home  and  devoured  the  divorce 
column,  and  though  I  am  for  morality  I  must 
confess  that  it  was  a  relief  to  read  of  some  of 
them  who  had  cut  loose.  What  most  impressed 
me  in  the  divorce  court  was  that  the  balance 
of  the  evidence  came  from  the  servants;  that  my 
175 


THE    ACTRESS 

lord  and  my  lady  whose  watchword  was  "ap 
pearance  "  would  stupidly  relax  in  their  vigilance 
before  a  valet  or  maid,  simply  because  they 
were  not  of  their  class.  Since  they  are  con 
sidered  most  excellent  witnesses  in  court,  I 
should  think  they  would  be  granted  a  position 
at  least  on  a  par  with  that  of  the  private  de 
tective. 

Once  a  girl,  a  very  pious  girl,  who  had  come 
on  from  the  town  where  I  was  reared  to  see  the 
East,  took  a  day  off  from  the  rubber-neck  wag 
ons  and  had  lunch  with  me.  She  was  abnor 
mally  interested  in  theatrical  matters,  although 
an  extremely  nice  girl,  and  before  the  lunch  was 
over  she  produced,  with  a  giggle  of  excitement, 
a  list  she  had  made  of  prominent  actresses. 
"Now,  do  tell  me,"  she  said,  handing  the  paper 
to  me,  "which  of  these  are  immoral  ?" 

That  girl  and  I  parted  hastily,  yet  now  and 
then  she  recurred  to  me  as  I  sat  in  a  corner 
and  watched  the  tide  of  faces,  for,  while  my 
secret  query  was  not  so  villanous,  I  felt  that  the 
day  would  surely  come  when  I  would  politely 
pluck  a  tall  blond  beauty  by  her  trailing  gown 
and  softly  ask:  "Say,  lady,  do  you  ever  cut 
loose  ?" 

Before  that  day  came,  however,  Hester's  let- 
176 


THE    ACTRESS 

ter  did.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  it  did  not  hap 
pen  on  a  tea  afternoon.  Instead,  I  was  going 
to  some  sort  of  a  show  at  the  Olympia,  and  with 
no  other  person  than  Mr.  St.  John  Melford. 
He  was  really  coming  for  me,  in  a  hansom,  too, 
for  he  had  grown  very  daring  and  took  great 
risks  with  our  good  names. 

The  sun  was  shining,  though  it  was  chilly, 
and  I  had  put  on  a  brown  velvet  that  Aaron 
loved  "because  it  made  me  all  one  color," 
which  was  supposed  to  be  a  compliment,  and 
it  seemed  very  right  that  the  letter  should  come 
when  it  did,  with  twenty  minutes  in  which  to 
read  it.  It  took  only  five,  however,  and  the 
rest  was  spent  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
for  while  Hester's  letter  was  long  it  was  very 
easy  to  read — not  only  what  was  on  the  lines, 
had  there  been  any,  but  what  lay  between  them. 
For  the  first  four  pages  she  talked  of  her  gowns; 
but  I  caught  a  confusion  of  capital  A's  on  the 
fifth  page,  and  skipped  to  it. 

"Yes,  dearest  Rhoda,"  she  wrote,  "we  have 
the  same  old  supper-parties,  and  although  we 
are  late  leaving  town  there  is  always  a  guest  or 
two.  I  really  believe  that  Aaron  Adams  has 
been  here  every  Sunday  for  eleven  weeks  "  (I 
had  been  away  eleven),  "  and  of  course  he  is  the 

177 


THE    ACTRESS 

usual  delight.  Father  is  so  fond  of  him.  He 
sits  at  my  right  hand  during  supper;  you  used 
to  sit  there,  didn't  you  ?  And  we  have  pleasant 
times,  just  the  two  of  us,  while  the  others  talk 
stocks.  He  won't  discuss  business  on  Sunday, 
you  know,  so  we  tell  each  other  what  we're 
going  to  do  when  we're  'grown-ups.'  He  said 
he  was  going  to  have  a  certain  farm-house  on 
Long  Island,  and  so  was  I;  but  when  we  came 
to  compare  notes  we  found  it  was  the  same 
place.  Father  said  there  was  only  one  thing  for 
us  to  do  after  that — father  is  so  fond  of  him — 
and  I  want  you  to  know  him  better  than  you 
did,  Rhoda,  as  of  course  you  will,  for  we've  all 
decided  that  this  is  a  world  of  few  friends, 
and  that  we  who  care  for  one  another  must 
keep  close  together.  Father  said  this  at  our 
last  supper — Aaron  Adams  mixed  the  mint 
juleps — for  we  go  down  to  the  country  this 
week.  Of  course,  you  and  I  can't  keep  very 
close  together  just  now;  but  Aaron  Adams  is 
coming  down  often,  as  father  is  so  fond  of  him 
and  I  want  my  dear  old  daddy  to  have  a  good 
summer  with  all  his  friends  about.  We  are  all 
so  proud  of  your  success.  I  asked  Aaron 
Adams  if  he  wasn't  glad  to  know  such  an 
artiste,  and  he  said,  'An  artiste  ?  Well,  that 

178 


THE    ACTRESS 

wouldn't  be  my  reason/  in  that  droll  way  he 
has,  for  you  know  he  never  will  give  you  strollers 
the  place  you  deserve,  and— 

But  it  went  on  like  this  for  six  more  pages, 
and  after  I  had  walked  from  wreath  to  wreath 
on  the  Early  Victorian  carpet,  saying  awful 
things  about  Hester  in  the  centre  of  each  wreath, 
Bunny  came. 

I  had  intended  to  be  perfectly  nice  to  Mr. 
Melford.  I  knew  that  he  was  in  no  way  to 
blame  because  his  ancestors  had  been  repressed 
for  centuries,  nor  was  it  his  fault  that  Aaron 
sneered  about  my  being  an  artist,  nor  that 
Hester  Bateman  was  a  false  friend.  Of  course, 
Hester  was  not  supposed  to  know  that  I  used 
to  see  a  great  deal  of  Aaron  Adams  during  the 
week,  but  one  would  think  after  the  letter  I 
wrote  her,  asking  her  to  tell  me  just  who  came 
to  supper  and  how  he  looked,  that  she  might 
suspect. 

But  no,  heedless,  cruel,  indifferent  to  any 
one  but  herself,  she  attacked  me  with  all  the 
subtle  deadliness  of  a  submarine  undermining 
an  armored  cruiser.  A  submarine!  No,  noth 
ing  so  exquisite.  A  sleek  little  mole,  rather,  bur 
rowing  to  the  heart  of — well,  of  an  Indian  turnip. 

Exhausted  with  my  silent  category,  I  leaned 
179 


THE    ACTRESS 

back  in  the  cab  and  closed  my  eyes.  "I  like 
you  best  this  way,"  said  Mr.  Bunny  Melford. 
"You  are  so  quiet  and  so  gentle." 

Then  I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked  at  him 
from  across  an  unfathomable  gulf  of  misun 
derstanding,  and  yet  he  was  so  near  that  he 
could  have  taken  my  hand  and  placed  it  under 
his  own,  on  his  knee,  as  Aaron  had  done.  A 
wave  of  naughtiness  swept  over  me.  "Would 
you  still  like  me  if  I  hung  over  those  doors  and 
screamed  ?" 

Mr.  Melford  at  first  roared  loudly,  but,  catch 
ing  a  wild  gleam  in  my  eye,  stopped  short — he 
could  stop  at  any  time,  the  roaring — and  ex 
claimed,  with  some  fear  in  his  voice:  "But  you 
wouldn't  do  that,  would  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  "I'm  thinking 
seriously  of  doing  it." 

"We  will  soon  be  there,"  he  soothed.  He 
was  not  a  conceited  man,  and  this  should  have 
made  me  behave;  but  I  flounced  about  a  little, 
and  the  poor  fellow  continued  his  attempts  to 
calm  me. 

"What  a  nice  fur  thing!"  he  commented. 

"It's  feathers,"  I  replied. 

"  Is  it,  really  ?  Looks  like  fox.  Ah,  good 
old  huntun'  season!" 

1 80 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Do  you  hunt?" 

"Ra-ther." 

"Don't  you  think  it's  poor  sport?  A  hun 
dred  against  one." 

"Oh,  I  say,  Miss  Miller!" 

"Well,  isn't  it?" 

"How  could  it  be  ?  Why,  we've  done  it  for 
centuries." 

"You  mean  because  you  English  do  it  that 
it  must  be  good  sport  ?" 

"Precisely.     How  clearly  you  see  things!" 

I  flounced  around  some  more. 

"They're  rodents,  you  know,"  he  calmed. 

"I  don't  care!"  I  shouted,  from  across  the 
abyss  of  our  various  viewpoints.  "If  they  must 
be  destroyed,  then  you  should  shoot  them." 

"Hush!"  said  Sinjun,  looking  nervously 
around.  "Don't  ever  say  that  again,  I  beg  of 
you.  It's  shockun',  it''s — it's  rank  heresy;  be 
sides,  the  foxes  like  it." 

We  were  very  quiet  for  a  little  while.  I  hoped 
that  I  was  going  to  be  good  and  to  forget  about 
the  letter,  and  not  take  it  out  on  Mr.  Melford; 
but  I  was  most  fidgety  inside  of  me,  and  at  last 
I  pinched  him  gently  on  the  arm.  He  jumped, 
and  turned  to  me  inquiringly.  I  lowered  my 
voice. 

181 


THE   ACTRESS 

"Suppose  I  scream  in  my  sleeve  for  a  second  ? 
What  do  you  think  ?  It  would  be  a  great  re 
lief  to  me." 

Mr.  Melford's  alarm  increased;  poor  soul,  he 
had  thought  it  was  all  over. 

"Oh,  I  say,  do  you  feel  that  bad  ?  But,  then, 
I  wouldn't  scream  if  I  could  help  it,  not  even  in 
my  sleeve;  it's — it's — " 

"Not  done?" 

"Exactly;    it's  not  done." 

"There  has  to  be  a  first  time  for  everything," 
I  commented,  recklessly.  "The  trouble  with 
you  Englishmen  is  you  take  no  initiative.  Now, 
if  I  just  quietly  screamed  like  this "  (I  lifted 
my  arm  to  my  face). 

Mr.  Melford  reached  for  the  glass,  and  en 
deavored  to  pull  it  down  to  deaden  the  sound; 
his  face  was  very  stern;  but  before  he  had 
solved  its  intricacies,  Olympia  loomed  up  before 
us,  and,  with  the  same  idea  as  when  distracting 
a  child,  he  pointed  to  it. 

"See,  see!"  he  exclaimed,  madly — "see  the 
big  building!" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  dropping  my  arm,  "it  is  im 
posing,  isn't  it  ?"  There  was  no  use.  It  takes 
two  to  make  a  good  "pretend,"  and  even  with 
the  thought  egging  me  on  of  Hester  and  Aaron 

182 


THE    ACTRESS 

playing  "grown-ups"  I  felt  I  could  not  con 
tinue  in  the  game  with  Bunny. 

"Best  thing  for  the  nerves  in  the  world,"  as 
sured  Mr.  Melford,  greatly  relieved — "space, 
height,  width,  don't  you  know,  relaxin',  re- 
lievin'." 

He  stretched  his  hand  across  the  unfathom 
able  gulf  and  helped  me  out.  I  looked  into  his 
face  and  smiled  apologetically.  Like  the  gen 
tleman  that  he  was,  he  did  not  show  the  disgust 

'  O 

he  must  have  felt,  and  I'm  glad  I  smiled,  for 
that  was  the  last  time  I  ever  looked  squarely 
at  him. 

We  approached  the  turnstiles  with  the  book 
ing-offices  on  either  side,  and  as  I  stepped  back 
for  him  to  buy  our  seats  he  fumbled  for  a  sec 
ond  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  card. 

"I  have  a  pass,"  he  said,  "and  must  go 
through  another  gateway.  I'll  meet  you  on  the 
other  side;  but  you  book  your  seat  here.  Have 
your  four  shillin's  ready." 

The  turnstile  clicked  once,  and  found  me  at 
the  small  window.  I  stared  bewildered  at 
the  inquiring  officer.  "Four  shillings,  madam, 
thank  you,"  said  the  officer,  to  make  it  easier. 
In  a  trance  I  dug  for  my  small  purse  and  de 
posited  the  money.  "Thank  you,"  he  repeated. 

183 


THE    ACTRESS 

Once  more  the  turnstile  clicked,  and  I  was 
emptied  into  the  building. 

From  a  distance  I  saw  St.  John  Melford  com 
ing  toward  me,  but  with  his  head  turned  to  ex 
change  a  greeting  with  some  friend.  He  seemed 
farther  off  than  the  fifty  feet  that  lay  between  us, 
and  I  felt  that  if  he  and  I  were  to  walk  side  by 
side  through  life  we  would  still  be  miles  apart. 
A  portly  man  squeezed  by  me  to  slip  into  the 
outgoing  turnstile.  "Sorry,"  he  murmured. 
Light  came  to  me  in  a  flash.  "Sorry,  too,"  I 
answered  back,  and  squeezed  into  the  turnstile 
with  him.  In  the  shadow  of  his  greatness  I 
was  clicked  out  into  the  day  again.  I  just 
caught  the  hansom  that  had  brought  us  there. 
"Go  on,"  I  shouted— "quick!" 

He  went  on  for  an  hour,  while  all  alone  I 
laughed  and  cried  and  answered  back — yes, 
and  screamed  in  my  sleeve;  for  I  had  at  last 
cut  loose. 


IX 


I  HAD  a  long  talk  with  my  social  referee  that 
night,  and  I  must  say  that  he  behaved  very 
humanly    and    laughed    off  his    beard    several 
times. 

"Now,  had  you  been  with  me,"  he  explained, 
"of  course,  knowing  you  as  well  as  I  do,  I  could 
have  paid  your  way  in." 

This  made  me  very  fiery.  "You  would  have 
done  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  declared.  "You 
and  I  are  comrades — we  work  together,  draw 
salaries  together,  and  when  I  go  out  with  a 
member  of  the  company  I  expect  to  pay  my 
share.  Every  actress  feels  as  I  do;  that's  one 
of  the  joys  of  being  an  actress.  Why,  if  we 
allowed  the  men  in  the  company  to  buy  our 
late  suppers,  for  instance,  we  wouldn't  be  able 
to  go  out  with  them  when  we  wanted  to,  but 
have  to  hang  about  looking  hungry,  and  wait 
for  an  invitation  just  like  those  poor,  dependent 
females  who  don't  work  for  a  living." 

The  umpire  modified  his  statement. 
"  185 


THE    ACTRESS 

"I  meant  it  would  be  no  sign  of  disrespect 
for  me  to  have  put  the  four  shillings  in  your 
hand  or  to  have  slipped  the  money  to  the  gate 
people.  And  I'm  sure" — a  little  guiltily — "be 
fore  my  wife  and  I  were  married,  even  though 
we  were  in  a  company  together,  that  I  paid  for 
her  supper." 

"Of  course  you  did,"  I  rejoined.  "That's 
because  she  was  ceasing  to  be  a  comrade  and 
was  becoming  something  dearer,  if — if  there 
can  be  anything  dearer,"  I  gulped,  "than  to  be 
a  man's  comrade." 

"You'll  know  better  some  day,"  interrupted 
the  Englishman  at  this,  but  quietly. 

"Anyway,"  I  rushed  on,  to  check  his  train 
of  thought,  or  mine,  "there's  nothing  more  in 
teresting  to  the  outsider  than  to  watch  the  deli 
cate  transition  from  comrades  to  sweethearts. 
You  know  this  always  happens  on  the  road  at 
home.  New  York  is  not  conducive  to  match 
making  in  a  company." 

"Too  much  Lambs'  Club,"  chuckled  the 
referee. 

"Yes,"  I  assented.  "It's  a  regular  society 
for  the  prevention  of  marriages.  But  to  go  on, 
I  do  love  to  watch  the  dears.  First  she  and  he 
go  out  with  the  rest  of  us,  and  after  one  man 

186 


THE    ACTRESS 

has  paid  for  the  whole  supper  we  sit  around 
the  table  and  figure  out  what  we  owe  individual 
ly  and  what  is  our  share  of  the  tip.  Even  at 
that  period  he  may  have  the  change  if  she 
hasn't,  and  she  has  to  make  him  take  it  the 
next  day  'or  I  shall  never  go  out  again/  she 
threatens.  Then  after  a  little  while,  through 
some  strategy  on  his  part,  they  get  a  table  by 
themselves,  and  at  first  she  is  loudly  insistent 
on  paying  her  share.  We  can  hear  her  clear 
across  the  room,  but  it  doesn't  impress  us  in 
the  least.  We  know  that  after  a  few  more 
weeks  of  loneliness,  of  walking  to  the  theatre 
together,  and  of  stopping  to  look  at  the  homes 
where  the  shades  are  still  up  and  coal  fires 
blazing,  we  know  that  they  will  finally  decide 
to  walk  on  together  through  life — through  life 
—think  what  a  rash  statement  that  is!  Any 
way,  after  that  he  always  pays  for  her  supper — 
as  he  should — and  cuts  down  on  his  drinks  to 
do  it." 

The  Briton  nodded  reminiscently  as  he  put 
more  spirit  gum  on  his  beard. 

"I  needn't  go  on,"  I  added.  "I  suppose  it's 
about  the  same  over  here.  It  would  be  just  the 
same  wherever  actors  are." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Englishman.  "A  certain 
187 


THE    ACTRESS 

mutual  appreciation  attracts  us,  propinquity 
makes  the  way  easy,  and  that  blazing  fire 
through  a  plate-glass  window  brings  to  a  crisis 
our  longing  for  domesticity.  The  difference 
between  your  country  and  ours  is  that  we  get 
it." 

"Get  what?" 

"Domesticity." 

"Yes,  you  do,"  I  admitted.  For  I  knew  he 
had  a  home  in  the  country  and  open  fires  and 
babies.  "  But  don't  you  think  we  get  it,  too  ?" 

"Not  so  likely,"  he  responded.  "You  have 
to  rush  about  so.  I'm  not  sure,"  he  dared, 
"that  you  care  for  it." 

"Yes,  I  do!  I  do!  I  do!"  I  responded,  pas 
sionately. 

"I  say,"  he  laughed,  "been  looking  at  coal 
fires  lately  ?" 

We  both  laughed  at  this — I  more  loudly  than, 
upon  reflection,  was  necessary.  I  didn't  want 
him  to  know  that  I  had  no  one  to  look  at  coal 
fires  with. 

"  But  surely,"  he  pursued,  going  back  to  St. 
John  Melford,  "you  sent  him  some  message?" 

"Oh  yes,"  I  responded.  "I  didn't  dare  go 
to  my  lodgings,  though,  for  fear  I'd  find  him 
there.  But  I  sent  him  telegrams  in  all  direc- 
188 


THE    ACTRESS 

tions,  and  I  dined  in  the  Savoy  grill  with  Larry." 
Then  I  laughed  very  easily.  "You  know,  I 
made  up  a  'pretend.'  I  had  to  have  one  to 
explain  my  extraordinary  conduct." 

It  was  so  nice  not  to  translate  "pretends"  to 
my  player  friend.  He  understood.  "What  did 
you  say  ?"  he  urged. 

"Well,  I  just  said:  'Obliged  to  leave.  Felt 
a  scream  coming  on." 

At  this  my  referee  would  have  had  his  beard 
all  to  do  over  again  if  Amelia  hadn't  come  to  the 
door  and  begged  pardon,  but  it  was  well  that 
the  royalties  wuz  to  be  in  front  or  I'd  be  that 
late.  So  he  forced  his  beard  back  on  with  a 
towel,  and  said  he  had  thought  we  were  late 
ringing  in.  And  after  the  ways  of  royalties 
were  explained  to  me,  and  how  the  managers  do 
not  begin  the  overture  until  the  arrival  of  the 
party,  no  matter  how  late — which  they  generally 
aren't,  being  a  punctilious  people — this  is  frag 
mentary,  but  the  way  I  got  it — I  started  toward 
my  room. 

"Well,  I'm  through  with  teas,"  I  concluded, 
"and  all  Bunnies." 

But  at  this  the  Englishman  grew  a  little 
severe  with  me. 

"I  doubt  if  you'll  find  another,"  he  said, 
189 


THE    ACTRESS 

rather  warmly.  "The  insular  Briton  is  more 
rare  than  you  Americans  admit.  And  as  for 
this  'not -being -done'  reason  you  are  always 
dwelling  upon,  it's  mostly  rot.  Englishmen,  as 
a  class,  are  the  most  independent  people  in  the 
world.  It  may  be  because  they  are  so  sure  of 
themselves — I  don't  deny  that  form  of  racial 
conceit;  but  if  they  follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
their  ancestors  unquestioningly,  it's  because 
they  want  to." 

I  couldn't  fight  back  my  Englishman,  for  the 
picture  rose  before  me  of  a  scene  in  Piccadilly 
that  very  afternoon  as  I  was  driving  about. 
It  was  only  a  cart-horse—well  taken  care  of,  as 
they  all  are  here,  but  with  too  heavy  a  load  for 
a  slippery  hill — being  assisted  up  the  grade  by 
one  messenger  boy,  a  cabman,  two  costers,  and 
a  big,  gaunt  Englishman  in  a  silk  hat  who  had 
just  stepped  out  from  his  club.  With  a  "one, 
two,  three,  push!"  all  hands  were  turning  the 
spokes  of  the  wheels,  and  splattering  along 
through  the  mud.  There  wasn't  the  smallest 
to-do  about  it,  and  when  the  cart  had  reached 
the  top  of  the  hill  the  clubman  pulled  out  his 
stick,  which  he  had  thrust  among  the  mer 
chandise,  slapped  the  mud  off  his  gloves,  and 
lifted  his  hat  to  a  lady  bowing  from  a  coroneted 
190 


THE    ACTRESS 

carriage.  Had  there  been  another  of  his  class 
with  him  it  could  have  been  looked  upon  as  a 
lark,  but  he  was  mightily  alone  and  didn't 
care  tuppence  for  any  one. 

So  I  told  my  friend  this,  feeling  that  sharp 
pain  in  my  nose  which  we  are  apt  to  suffer  when 
touched  by  very  human  elements,  and  he  in 
turn,  pretending  not  to  notice  my  tears,  sud 
denly  advised  me  to  come  down  into  the  coun 
try  for  the  summer.  "I  think  you're  a  bit 
seedy,"  he  added. 

"I  guess  I  am,"  I  said,  the  thought  of  cool 
green  acres  growing  very  sweet  to  me;  and  then 
Amelia  begged  pardon  again,  but  she  wouldn't 
be  responsible.  And  even  as  she  washed  her 
hands  of  the  whole  affair,  there  was  a  burst  of 
chords  and  the  band  swung  into  "God  Save 
the  King,"  so  that  we  knew  his  Majesty  had 
arrived. 

On  any  other  night  I  should  have  been  quite 
mad  with  excitement  over  playing  before  this 
most  beloved  of  all  monarchs,  and  even  with 
the  events  of  the  day  rampant  in  my  mind  I 
became  very  shaky  before  I  made  my  entrance. 
Amelia  was  quite  calm  about  it,  however, 
having  played  before  royalty  a  number  of  times 
— meaning  that  her  ladies  had — and  found  them 
191 


THE    ACTRESS 

most  pleasant  and  willin'.  She  said  the  fireman 
told  her  the  box  that  is  always  reserved  for  the 
royalties  had  been  bought  by  some  tourist,  but, 
as  is  the  custom  when  sold  to  another,  the  ad 
dress  of  the  patron  is  taken,  so  that  he  may  be 
notified  and  the  money  returned  should  royalty 
want  it.  And  the  fireman  told  Amelia  that  the 
patron  had  been  very  mad  about  it,  and  said 
such  a  thing  could  never  have  happened  in 
America.  Which  made  me  wonder  if  some 
Americans  could  be  termed  insular,  or  penin 
sular,  or  what. 

Frederica  was  in  a  fearful  state.  She  in 
sisted  upon  wearing  her  new  spring  hat  in  the 
dance-hall,  and— so  Larry  claimed  afterward— 
spoke  all  her  lines  with  an  English  accent,  or, 
rather,  with  Frederica's  idea  of  an  English 
accent.  I  borrowed  a  knife  from  one  of  the 
stage -hands  and  cut  two  holes  in  a  canvas 
bowlder  for  Mr.  Benny  and  me  to  peep  through. 
Mr.  Benny  was  too  well  trained  to  be  guilty 
of  such  vandalism,  but  he  didn't  mind  looking. 

"See  him  now,"  he  would  whisper  to  me. 
"He  is  laughing.  Think  of  a  king  laughing!" 

"He  laughed  out  loud  during  your  scene,"  I 
whispered  back. 

Mr.  Benny  very  nearly  fell  through  the 
192 


THE    ACTRESS 

bowlder.  "You  don't  mean  it!"  he  exclaimed. 
"A  king  laughing  at  me!  And  out  loud!  Now, 
when  you  go  on  " —kindly  retaliating — "I'll 
watch,  and  I'll  tell  you  everything  he  does." 

"Do,"  I  urged.  So  Mr.  Benny  and  I  kept 
tabs  on  the  royal  personage  throughout  the 
play — that  is,  when  we  could  force  Bella  and 
Frederica  from  our  peep-holes.  And  all  of  us 
told  one  another  just  how  he  "took"  our  scenes, 
and  fortunately  for  all  he  took  them  very  well. 
He  was  the  first  to  laugh  at  the  humorous  lines 
and  the  quickest  to  sober  down  when  the  situ 
ation  was  serious.  We  all  felt  the  charm  of 
his  rotund  presence,  Frederica  even  going  so 
far  as  to  say,  "And  I  see,  now,  how  so  many 
women—  And  then  she  rolled  her  eyes  sig 
nificantly,  which  exuberant  burst  was  beaten 
into  her  ears  for  many  a  day  afterward. 

All  through  the  evening  my  inner  self  was 
saying  ridiculous  things  as  I  spoke  my  lines, 
addressing  them  to  the  King,  as  of  course  an 
inner  self  should.  "Do  you  see  her,  King?" 
was  my  train  of  thought.  "Well,  a  man  named 
Aaron  Adams  has  refused  her.  There,  now 
you're  laughing — that's  just  the  outside  of  her 
you're  laughing  at;  you  would  feel  sorry  for  the 
inside  of  the  shell.  Then  there's  a  girl  named 
193 


THE    ACTRESS 

Hester — now  we  must  stop  a  minute  while  she 
lands  that  laugh  properly;  it's  very  ticklish. 
Yes,  she  did  it;  we  all  have  to  work  together 
for  that  laugh.  Hester  is  her  name — a  false 
friend.  Did  you  ever  have  a  false  friend  ?  Of 
course  not.  You  always  win.  Or  are  they 
the  ones  we  do  not  hear  about — the  ones  you 
do  not  win  ?  Anyway,  you  go  on  smiling  and 
being  kind,  and  that's  what  I  must  do.  You 
play  at  king  and  I  play  at  Indian — just  a  sec 
ond,  please,  I  must  catch  Bella's  eye;  sometimes 
she's  slow,  sometimes  she's — I  got  it,  so  did 
your  Majesty— and  the  audience,  which  doesn't 
always  happen.  Catching  some  one  else's 
eye  on  the  stage  means  trouble  ahead.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  dexterity.  I  suppose  you 
have  caught  a  few  eyes  yourself  in  your  day, 
but  you  must  have  had  to  do  it  far  more  care 
fully  than  I,  for  you're  a  king,  and  sovereignty 
doesn't  come  off  with  cold  cream  as  does  an 
Indian,  and — oh,  did  your  box  start  that  hand  ? 
How  splendid!  But  it  doesn't  heal  this  wound 
of  mine  a  bit.  How  curious  that  it  doesn't! 
Now,  once  upon  a  time  —  quick,  here's  my 
change!  What  am  I  thinking  about  ?  Amelia— 

And  so  I  went  on  crazily  through  the  even 
ing,  and  since  all  the  others  must  have  been 
194 


THE    ACTRESS 

just  as  busy  shaping  their  foolish  inner  thoughts, 
I  wondered  which  was  the  real  drama — the  stage 
story  we  were  presenting,  or  our  own,  which  we 
were  hiding. 

Despite  the  rioting  of  my  fancies,  there  was 
little  indulgence  in  this  levity  when  I  offered 
the  bouquet  to  the  Royal  Princess  in  the  party. 
For  that's  just  what  I  did— presented  a  bou 
quet.  Looking  back  upon  it,  there  was  no 
particular  reason  for  offering  the  Princess  ten 
guineas' worth  of  white  orchids  beyond  that  she 
had  lately  become  engaged;  at  least,  that  was 
the  excuse  the  management  made  when  they 
suggested  to  one  of  his  Majesty's  equerries  that 
the  company  wished  to  do  so,  and  the  King 
sent  back  word  that  he  and  the  Princess  would 
receive  Miss  Sarah  Fall-in-the-Mud  at  the  end 
of  the  play.  Bella  said  this  naming  me  was  a 
great  relief  to  her,  as  she  knew  her  mother 
would  be  nervous  if  she  heard  she  had  been 
summoned  before  the  King,  and  at  the  time  I 
was  unhappy  over  the  choice  myself. 

I  told  the  equerry  that  I  hadn't  the  smallest 
idea  what  to  do,  and  would  probably  faint  on 
his  Majesty's  shirt-front,  but  he  comforted  me 
by  saying  I  would  find  myself  among  the  sim 
plest  people  in  the  world.  All  I  had  to  do  was 
195 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  curtsy  when  I  entered  the  box,  and  if  the 
King  offered  his  hand  to  curtsy  again  as  I  took 
it,  and  once  more  to  the  Princess.  Then  I 
was  to  wait  until  his  Majesty  addressed  me, 
and  in  answering  I  should  call  him  first  your 
Majesty,  and  after  that,  if  there  was  any  after 
that,  to  say  "Sir."  To  the  Princess  I  was  to  say 
"your  Royal  Highness,"  and  I  was  to  back  out 
of  the  box  when  the  King  bade  me  good-bye. 

"I  think  I  can  get  in  all  right,"  I  told  the 
gentleman-in-waiting,  "but  I  shall  probably 
never  be  able  to  back  up  those  three  steps  lead 
ing  from  the  box.  I  shall  simply  sit  down  on 
the  first  one  and  be  pulled  out  by  some  one  dis 
creetly  lurking  in  arrear." 

"You'll  manage  all  right,"  smiled  the  equerry. 
"I'll  be  by  your  side  in  case  anything  goes 
wrong.  Have  you  your  speech  ready  for  her 
Royal  Highness  ?" 

I  said  that  I  had  it  as  ready  as  it  ever  would 
be,  and  a  little  readier  possibly  than  later  on, 
and  I  tried  it  on  him  very  successfully.  I  wasn't 
happy  through  the  last  act,  but,  like  a  first  night, 
the  great  terror  rolled  away  when  the  moment 
came.  I  made  my  first  curtsy  on  the  second 
step,  which  was  nothing  short  of  miraculous, 
and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  if  the  gentleman-in- 
196 


THE    ACTRESS 

waiting  said  anything  by  way  of  introduction, 
for  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  the  monarch  re 
moving  his  glove  that  he  might  politely  offer 
his  hand  to  Miss  Sarah  Fall-in-the-Mud,  and  I 
knew  it  wasn't  because  he  wanted  to  keep  the 
Indian  stain  of  my  hands  off  his  white  kids, 
either. 

''We  have  greatly  enjoyed  the  whole  play  and 
your  own  performance,  Miss  Miller,"  he  said. 

Think  of  his  going  to  the  trouble  of  hunt 
ing  up  my  name  on  the  sixpenny  programme! 

The  equerry  kicked  my  foot. 

"I  thank  your  Majesty,"  I  replied,  "in  the 
name  of  the  company  as  well  as  for  myself,  for 
your  graciousness  in  coming  to  see  us  strangers 
in  a  strange  land,  and  I  beg  that  I  may  present 
these  flowers  to  her  Royal  Highness." 

I  think  the  King  said  "surely" — certainly  not 
"sure";  then  the  Princess  extended  her  hand, 
and  I  curtsied  as  she  said:  "Are  they  really  for 
me  ?  How  sweet!" 

At  this  I  managed  to  ejaculate:  "We  beg  to 
present  them  with  our  respectful  good  wishes 
for  the  future  happiness  of  your  Royal  High 
ness." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  the  Princess,  "and 
thank  them." 

197 


THE    ACTRESS 

And  the  King  said:  "Very  nice,  indeed,  Miss 
Miller;  very  kind.  Come  to  our  country  often." 

At  which  I  replied:  "Thank  you,  Sir,  I  should 
like  to." 

Then  the  King  and  Princess  both  suddenly 
turned  their  backs,  looking  down  into  the  stalls, 
and  I  saw  that  the  equerry  was  making  little 
roundabout  quirks  with  his  finger  which  I 
realized  meant  that  I  need  not  have  to  back  up 
the  steps,  after  all,  as  the  royalties  were  giving 
me  an  opportunity  of  walking  out  nose  fore 
most.  So  I  fled  to  the  company  and  told  them 
all  about  it,  thanking  the  gentleman-in-waiting 
for  "holding  the  book  on  me."  And  when  I 
drove  home  past  the  King's  house  I  felt  that  it 
was  very  pleasant  to  know  a  neighbor.  Still, 
there  was  little  of  his  Majesty  in  my  mind,  but 
a  longing  for  cool,  green  stretches,  long  days  on 
the  river,  and  the  getting  away  from  myself. 

I  started  out  early  the  next  morning  to  look 
for  a  place  in  the  country,  my  efforts  to  make 
haste  being  greatly  retarded  by  the  assiduities 
of  the  landlady,  Cissy,  and  the  cook.  I  was 
confused  over  this  until  I  discovered  that  my 
fame  was  heralded  in  the  Morning  Post.  Land 
ladies  all  read  the  "Court  Circular"  and  every 
move  of  the  royalties,  just  as  they  read  their 

198 


THE    ACTRESS 

prayer-book — only  with  a  good  deal  more  en 
joyment.  I  finally  invited  them  all  in,  and  gave 
a  true  version  while  Cissy  fastened  my  boots. 
The  landlady  stood  it  very  well,  having  once 
boarded  a  lady-in-waiting;  but  Cissy  never  en 
tirely  recovered,  and  all  my  previous  friendly 
efforts  to  treat  her  as  a  human  being  went  for 
nothing  after  my  close  association  with  the 
King. 

Even  so,  by  eleven  I  was  at  the  station,  racing 
from  one  end  of  it  to  another,  and  telling  my 
life's  history  to  every  policeman  until  I  found 
the  right  number  of  the  right  platform.  Since 
I  was  not  yet  a  seasoned  commuter,  I  did  not 
select  my  carriage,  and  then,  closing  the  door, 
drape  myself  through  its  window  as  though 
defying  any  one  to  invade  its  sanctity.  Nor  did 
I  attempt  to  look  like  ten  people  and  distribute 
my  wraps  all  over  the  seats,  as  though  the 
owners  had  just  stepped  out  to  look  after  their 
luggage.  As  a  result  the  carriage  was  filled  by 
a  young  lady,  packages,  her  maid,  and  a  huge 
dog. 

The  young  lady  popped  in  at  the  last  moment, 

saying,  "You  don't  mind  dogs  do  you.  madam  ?" 

but  pulling  in  the  beast  without  waiting  for  a 

reply.     And  while  I  didn't  object  to  the  large 

199 


THE    ACTRESS 

creature  with  its  head  in  its  mistress's  lap  and 
his  tail  flapping  in  and  out  of  my  face,  I  won 
dered  what  the  young  lady  would  have  said 
had  I  done  so.  She  would  probably  have  been 
"sorry,"  and  Fido's  tail  would  have  continued 
flapping. 

The  ticket  man  came  along  and  had  a  look 
at  our  tickets  to  see  if  we  were  on  the  right  train, 
thanking  us  because  we  were,  and  there  was 
some  bell-ringing  and  green-flagging,  and  then 
the  doors  began  to  slam— which  is  a  noise  like 
nothing  else  in  the  world,  and  absolutely 
European  in  suggestion  —  and  we  were  off. 
The  young  lady  removed  her  best  gloves  and 
put  on  some  shabby  ones — and  yet  she  kept  a 
maid — and  I  retired  behind  a  Post,  figuratively 
speaking,  until  the  large  dog  tried  to  curl  up 
in  my  lap.  This  was  a  mark  of  favor,  so  the 
two  women  intimated,  and  to  such  an  extent 
that  I  scarcely  had  the  courage  to  disturb  the 
portion  of  him  which  did  finally  succeed  and 
descend  from  the  carriage  when  my  station  was 
reached. 

The  social  referee  had  followed  up  his  sug 
gestion  the  night  before  by  kindly  urging  me  to 
stay  down  in  his  part  of  the  country  so  that  I 
could  run  in  on  his  "missis,"  when  I  grew  lone- 

200 


THE    ACTRESS 

ly,  and  play  with  his  "nipper" — coster  talk  is  a 
sort  of  agreeable  affectation  here  in  England, 
as  is  the  introduction  of  our  Bowery  dialect  at 
home;  but  I  wanted  to  be  near  the  river,  and  as 
Frederica  would  be  spending  her  Sundays  with 
other  relatives  of  hers  near  Walton,  I  decided 
upon  that  locality. 

Wise  from  my  previous  experiences,  I  was 
not  looking  for  chintz  or  Georgian  chairs,  but  I 
did  reasonably  expect  rooms  of  good  size  and  a 
garden,  if  not  a  "view."  I  abandoned  the  view 
and  the  garden  as  the  day  wore  on,  but  still 
clung  to  comfortable  rooms.  There  were  one 
or  two  villas  that  suggested  comfort  where  the 
householders  took  "paying  guests,"  which  meant 
a  welcoming — if  my  references  were  good— to 
the  hearth  and  home  upon  the  payment  of  a 
sum  calculated  to  keep  that  home  in  comfort. 
I  hesitated  at  one  of  the  villas,  for  the  sun  was 
coming  cheerily  in,  until  the  hostess  sought  to 
lure  me  by  the  assurance  "that  I  would  never  be 
alone."  And  at  this  threat  I  found  it  was  too 
far  from  the  station,  walking  on  farther  hastily. 

It  was  thus  I  came  upon  Rosemary  Lane, 
when  I  had  finished  the  list  given  me  by  the 
estate  agent,  and  was  starting  in  to  enjoy  my 
self.  I  sauntered  along  Rosemary  Lane  be- 

14  201 


THE    ACTRESS 

cause  I  liked  the  name,  and  I  might  have  walked 
to  the  end  of  it,  coming  out  upon  the  river,  had 
my  eyes  not  been  attracted  by  a  sign  announcing 
the  sale  of  Ayredale  puppies.  This  was  evident 
ly  to  be  a  dog  day  with  me,  and  I  speculated— 
picking  the  hairs  of  the  large  train  dog  from  off 
my  skirt  that  the  puppies  might  not  be  jealous — 
just  what  this  would  signify  in  a  dream  book. 
Through  the  hedge  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
story-and-a-half  gabled  cottage — the  kind  with 
more  room  inside  than  one  could  believe  possible 
from  the  outside,  like  the  feeding  capacity  of 
little  boys  —  and  without  further  reflection  I 
was  a-goin'  up  the  walk  and  a-knockin'  at  the 
door. 

I  believe  I  had  some  remote  idea  of  arranging 
my  raison  d'etre  before  the  maid  would  come 
from  the  back  yard,  as,  of  course,  she  would  be 
playing  with  the  dogs.  But  ere  the  echo  had 
died  away,  from  around  the  house,  prefaced  by 
puppies  and  epilogued  by  them,  came  a  lady— 
unmistakably  that  —  wearing  a  short  skirt,  a 
heavy  bib  apron,  and  an  inquiring  look.  It  was 
a  little  sudden,  and  I  think  I  can  be  forgiven  my 
stammering  speech. 

"I  just  knocked,"  I  said,  "to  ask  if  you,  or 
whoever  has  it  —  that  is,  the  cottage  —  keeps 

202 


THE    ACTRESS 

anything  else  besides  dogs — meaning,  of  course, 
lodgers." 

The  lady  lifted  her  brows.     "Lodgers  ?" 

"Yes,  I  see  you  have  dogs.  You  have  rooms, 
too  ?"  I  was  getting  desperately  mixed,  but 
the  lady  smiled,  not  politely,  but  as  though  she 
saw  it  were  really  funny.  This  encouraged  me. 
"I  began  wrong,"  I  apologized.  "I  liked  your 
house  and  the  puppies,  and  I  want  rooms.  If 
you  haven't  rooms  I  think  I'll  take  a  puppy" — 
they  were  twining  about  me  lovingly — "but  I'd 
like  both  if  you  can  manage  it." 

The  lady  looked  at  me  thoughtfully.  "  I  sup 
pose  I  ought  to  take  lodgers,  oughtn't  I  ?" 

Visions  of  the  other  summer  boarders  I 
had  met  at  the  other  houses  rose  up  before 
me.  "  Lodger,  not  lodgers,"  I  hastened  to 
say. 

"I've  an  extra  sitting  and  bed  room,"  she 
went  on,  "that  I  could  very  well  do  without. 
Would  you  like  to  see  them  ?" 

I  told  the  lady  I  would,  and  I  tried  to  be 
very  calm  when  I  saw  they  were  chintz-hung 
and  Georgian-chaired.  I  liked  the  householder, 
but  still  the  English  are  good  at  a  bargain,  es 
pecially  the  ladies,  so  "How  much  are  they?" 
I  asked,  languidly,  looking  out  of  the  window  at 
203 


THE    ACTRESS 

a  view  and  a  garden  at  the  same  time,  but  pre 
tending  not  to  care  for  them. 

"  How  much  should  they  be  ?"  replied  the 
lady. 

At  this  I  crinkled  up  my  eyes  and  laughed— 
as  did  the  lady  also — fears  of  her  craftiness 
having  fled.  "Don't  you  know?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  responded.  "I  know 
about  dogs  and  how  much  they  should  cost,  but 
I've  never  taken  lodgers,  or  been  in  lodgings,  I 
may  add,  and  yet  I  feel  that  I  ought.  I'm  not  a 
rich  woman." 

There  was  something  so  simple  and  fine  about 
her  statement  that  I  loved  her  immediately. 
"I've  seen  rooms  not  nearly  so  nice  around 
here,"  I  then  said,  "for  twenty-five  shillings  a 
week,  so  I  think  you  should  charge  thirty- 
five—" 

But  I  got  no  further,  for  she  stopped  me  with : 
"Oh,  really,  no,  I  couldn't;  I  only  pay  twenty 
shillings  a  week  for  the  whole  cottage." 

"But  that  would  include  service  and  lights 
and  my  tub,"  I  urged,  feeling  that  it  was  all 
twisted  like  a  comic  opera,  but  intent  upon 
seeing  justice  done. 

"It  would  be  pleasant,"  said  the  lady,  re 
laxing,  "for  then  I  could  afford  a  maid,  and  I 
204 


THE    ACTRESS 

would  get  a  good  one  who  understood  waiting 
on  lodgers,  otherwise  you'd  have  a  fearful  time. 
Are  you  difficult  to  cater  to  ?" 

Of  course,  I  didn't  tell  the  lady  that  wasn't  a 
customary  question;  but  I  let  it  be  understood 
right  a:  the  start  that  if  pressed  cabbage  was 
brought  to  me,  I  would  get  under  the  table  and 
not  come  out.  And  she  wasn't  at  all  alarmed, 
but  smiled  comprehendingly  and  said  she  would 
get  under  with  me,  as  she  had  lived  a  number 
of  years  on  the  Continent  and  couldn't  endure 
English  greens. 

It  was  all  so  unorthodox,  our  arrangement, 
that  I  had  gone  some  way  from  the  house- 
after  depositing  a  pound,  not  because  she  de 
manded  it,  but  because  I  did,  fearing  she'd 
change  her  mind — I  had  gone  some  way  from 
the  house,  I  repeat,  before  I  remembered  she 
didn't  know  my  profession;  so  I  went  back, 
though  unwillingly,  and  called  over  the  hedge, 
jocularly,  "How  about  the  references?"  mean 
ing  how  about  my  own. 

Then  the  lady  suddenly  turned  very  white 
and  said,  quickly:  "Who  sent  you  back  ?"  And 
I  said:  "Why,  no  one;  but  I  must  tell  you  I'm 
an  actress." 

At  this  the  color  came  back  into  her  face. 
205 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "I  don't  care.  And  I'll 
send  you  to  my  old  priest  if  you  want  one  of 
me.  I'm  not  a  Catholic,  but  we  both  love 
dogs." 

"I  don't  want  any  references,"  I  scoffed. 
"Didn't  I  say  I  was  an  actress!"  Which,  of 
course,  I  didn't  mean,  but  the  lady  understood; 
and  then  I  flew  for  my  train,  and  was  so  happy 
over  the  prospect  of  getting  out  into  the  country 
and  away  from  my  London  self — as  though  a 
self  doesn't  stay  the  same  wherever  one  takes 
it,  but  I  had  yet  to  learn  that — I  didn't  bother 
in  the  least  over  the  lady's  turning  white.  In 
deed,  it  wasn't  until  we  had  begun  skimming 
over  the  chimney-pots  of  London  that  I  remem 
bered  I  didn't  know  her  name  or  the  number  of 
her  house,  and  all  I  could  tell  the  company  was 
that  the  address  might  be  Mrs.  Ayredale,  Puppy 
Villa,  Rosemary  Lane,  and  to  come  down  on 
Sundays. 

Well,  I  suppose  I  am  not  the  only  one  who 
has  pressed  her  grief  into  the  background  by 
keeping  very  busy  in  the  foreground,  face  all 
smiles  and  back  of  head  all  twisted  wires.  I 
don't  want  to  advise  others,  but  the  next  time 
I  have  a  sorrow  like  the  one  of  that  summer — I 
called  it  "Hester's  treachery"  for  weeks — I  am 
206 


THE    ACTRESS 

not  going  to  preserve  it  by  shutting  it  off  from 
the  light,  where  it  lies  dormant  and  gathers 
strength.  I  wonder,  now,  I  did  not  get  some 
metaphorical  comfort  out  of  the  memory  of 
my  childhood's  cough. 

A  grief  is  just  like  a  cough.  They  told  me 
when  I  was  little  and  suffered  through  long 
Sunday  sermons,  with  a  bad  cold  adding  to  my 
misery,  that  if  I  would  fight  back  my  cough  I 
wou'd  not  only  be  an  onward  Christian  soldier, 
but  I  would  the  sooner  recover  from  it — the 
cough,  not  the  soldier.  As  a  result,  I  permitted 
myself  none  of  the  agreeable  sensations  of  rip 
pling  my  bronchial  tubes  gently  whenever  I  felt 
ticklish,  and  getting  lozenges  passed  to  me,  but, 
with  eyes  bulging  out  and  tears  streaming,  would 
fight  the  demon  until,  suddenly,  with  a  terrific 
explosion  of  pent-up  barking,  it  would  rush  into 
the  foreground  and  I  would  be  led  from  the 
church — a  shamed  thing. 

I  had  always  talked  so  much  of  the  actor 
enjoying  any  kind  of  a  sensation  that  I  was  be 
ginning  to  feel  a  little  uneasy  over  my  position 
as  a  real  artist  when  I  found  myself  getting  so 
little  joy  out  of  Hester's  death-dealing  letters. 
I  think  now  that  the  quality  which  is  pleasur 
able  to  us  must  be  the  stimulus  accruing  from 
207 


THE    ACTRESS 

our  own  emotions.  Now  Hester's  letters  could 
not  be  called  a  stimulus;  they  were  numbing. 
Several  came  before  the  great  one  arrived,  be 
cause,  of  course,  I  had  to  be  polite  and  answer 
her.  I  asked  myself  sometimes  why  I  invited 
these  attacks,  but  even  so,  I  am  sure  this  tort 
ure  was  not  sweet  torture.  I  told  myself  that  I 
wrote  not  at  all  to  read  Aaron  Adams'  name, 
but  just  to  see  how  far  a  false  friend  would  go, 
and  it  was  scandalous  to  see  how  far  she  could 
go  and  still  be  a  perfectly  respectable  young 
girl. 

In  answer  to  her  first  letter  I  spoke  of  my 
cough.  There  is  always  something  pathetic 
about  the  expression  "my  cough,"  as  though 
it  were  a  sort  of  a  Camille-like  growth  caught 
in  the  third  act,  and  not  from  taking  out  one's 
lace  yoke  and  the  weather  turning  cold.  Any 
way,  she  answered  it  promptly.  The  letter  came 
with  a  whole  sheaf  of  others  at  the  end  of  a 
matinee,  just  as  I  was  going  out  to  dinner.  I 
went  back  to  my  dressing-room  with  them,  for 
I  saw  Hester's  handwriting  on  top,  and  I  thought 
it  would  be  better  not  to  shout  out  dreadful 
things  about  her  in  a  restaurant.  I  tossed  the 
others  on  my  dressing-table  and  went  at  hers. 
It  was  just  as  bad  as  I  had  expected,  and  it  was 
208 


THE    ACTRESS 

even  worse,  for  she  sympathized  with  me,  sort 
of  pretending  all  the  time  that  she  was  sorry 
about  my  "cough." 

''You  dear  girl,"  she  said,  among  other  in 
sults — "you  dear  old  girl,  coughing  away  from 
us  in  that  damp  climate.  I  told  Aaron  "  — she 
didn't  say  Aaron  Adams  any  more— "  who  is 
staying  with  us,  the  minute  dinner  was  over. 
We  had  such  a  jolly  time  at  dinner  I  didn't  want 
to  bring  up  anything  so  miserable  then,  and  he 
threw  his  cigar  into  the  grate,  for  any  friend 
of  his  friends  is  a  friend  to  him,  and  he  said: 
'Has  she  got  any  of  her  Speedwell's  tincture 
with  her  ?'  And  I  said  how  funny  that  was 
that  he  should  feel  that,  for  7  knew  you  used  to 
take  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  he  must  have  read 
my  mind — wasn't  it  curious  ?  I  told  him  of 
the  coincidence,  which  made  him  laugh,  and 
he  gripped  my  hand  and  said,  'The  dear,  dear 
child,'  this  being  very  affectionate  in  a  drawing- 
room  with  eight  lamps  going,  though  it  shows, 
too,  that  he  feels  I  am  a  silly.  But  he  had  a 
correct,  far-away  look  in  his  eye,  and  laughed 
easily  when  father  came  in  and  caught  us.  'I 
doubt  if  she  has  it,  or  even  the  prescription,'  I 
answered,  so  he  has  gone  to  his  room  to  get 
his  copy  to  send  you  while  I  am  rushing  off 
209 


THE    ACTRESS 

these  few  lines.  We  are  all  so  happy  here,  we 
wish—" 

But  I  knew  she  didn't  care  a  bit  whether  I 
was  dead  or  not,  even  with  the  chance  for  my 
cough  to  dry  up  in  their  hot  air,  and  the  only 
other  thing  about  the  letter  which  interested 
me  was  the  postscript:  "I  needn't  have  kept 
my  letter  open,  after  all,  for  the  prescription,  as 
Aaron  forgot  and  sealed  it  up  in  an  envelope 
by  itself.  This  is  just  as  well,  perhaps,  as  my 
letter  would  then  be  overweight;  and  he  now 
flaps  it  down  on  my  desk,  asking  me  to  address 
it,  which  is  very  lazy  of  him,  for  I  could  easily 
tell  him  where  you're  playing,  and— see  that 
blot! — he  is  joggling  my  elbow  to  make  me  hur 
ry  so  that  he  can  get  this  to  you  by  return  mail. 
Isn't  he  a  thoughtful  creature  ?  He  knows  how 
fond  I  am  of  you.  Good-bye,  lamb  child. 
Your  Hester." 

Finishing  this  I  swished  madly  through  my 
red-cornered  mail  until  I  found  the  blue  corner 
with  Hester's  handwriting  on  it,  only  this  time 
hurried  and  blotted  upon  the  envelope.  Then 
I  grew  white  and  chilly  and  angry  and  choky, 
for  I  held  the  letter  up  to  the  strong  light  and 
deciphered  Aaron's  heavy  pen-strokes  criss 
crossing  enough  paper  to  have  written  a  dozen 
210 


THE    ACTRESS 

prescriptions.  I  wanted  to  open  it.  Oh,  how 
I  wanted  to!  And  I  wouldn't  open  it,  for  I  de 
spised  the  trick  he  was  playing  on  me,  and  I 
felt  Aaron's  clasp  of  Hester's  hand,  the  pet 
phrase,  and  the  playful  joggling  of  her  elbow, 
and  I  would  not  read  what  he  would  doubtless 
take  such  joy  in  telling  me. 

All  memory  of  Aaron's  unfailing  kindness 
had  been  swept  away  in  his  cruel  cable.  Like 
a  painter  who  had  lost  his  perspective  and  goes 
on  making  foolish  brush-strokes,  I  went  on 
adding  to  my  folly  by  quick  strokes  of  my  pen, 
as  in  another  envelope  I  readdressed  his  un 
opened  letter  to  his  office.  As  I  was  about  to 
blot  it  Mr.  Benny  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
a  little  querulous  over  my  long  delay,  for  he 
was  to  take  me  out  to  dinner — not  a  "Dutch 
treat"  at  all,  but  a  two -and -six  party,  in  ex 
change  for  the  Sunday  I  had  given  him  on  the 
river.  So  I  left  the  letter  to  dry  and  hurried 
out  with  him,  putting  my  grief —  resentment, 
alas! — among  the  twisted  wires  in  the  back  of 
my  head. 

It  turned  out  to  be  a  serious  meal,  for  we 

talked  a  great  deal  of  lost  opportunities,  Mr. 

Benny  telling  me  how  much  money  he  would 

be  worth  if  he  had  bought  a  lot  in  Seattle  twenty 

211 


THE    ACTRESS 

years  ago  for  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars — 
and  he  had  the  money,  too,  only  a  friend  ad 
vised  him — and  I  telling  Mr.  Benny  if  we  would 
just  trust  to  our  own  intuitions,  and  not  to  false 
friends  who  muddled  things  up,  how  not  only 
rich  but  happy  we  would  all  be.  Afterward 
there  was  some  asking  of  Mr.  Benny  how  he 
"got  back"  at  his  friend,  and  at  this  Mr.  Benny, 
looking  surprised,  replied  that  there  was  no  hap 
piness  in  getting  back  at  anyone — small  methods 
made  the  man  smaller,  and  there  was  no  tor 
ment  like  being  smaller  than  the  fellah  you  hate. 
Then  followed  business  of  me  rising  hastily  and 
saying  that  I  had  to  go  back  to  read  a  letter,  and 
that  I  believed  he  was  right,  and  I  did  want  to 
do  the  big  thing,  and  would  he  mind;  and  Mr. 
Benny  telling  me  to  go  on,  for  he  knew  I  was 
bothered. 

So  I  went  on,  jostled  my  way,  the  distance 
too  short  to  take  a  cab,  too  long  to  walk,  and 
when  I  reached  the  red  post-box  in  front  of  the 
theatre  with  "London  and  Abroad"  painted 
above  the  slit,  I  saw  Amelia  dropping  a  blue- 
stamped  envelope  therein.  "Amelia!"  I  shout 
ed,  but  it  had  disappeared. 

"I   'opes   I   ain't  done  wrong,"   Amelia   an 
swered    to   my   shout.     "I    saw   hit    ready   on 
212 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  table,  and  the  post  closes  before  aight, 
miss." 

I  couldn't  answer  her,  for  it  was  not  she  who 
had  done  the  wrong.  But  from  that  time  I 
made  brave  efforts  not  to  ask  myself  why  this 
intuition  of  which  I  boasted  hadn't  prompted 
me  to  take  a  cab,  and  tried  to  quell  any  rebellion 
with  sage  bits,  such  as:  "What's  done  can't  be 
undone,"  or  "Whatever  is,  is  right." 

A  maxim  that  did  much  to  soothe  me  during 
those  long  days  in  the  country  was  that  "Nature 
never  did  desert  the  heart  that  loved  her."  I 
meant  Nature,  too,  not  Aaron.  And  I  really 
loved  it,  and  that's  what  troubled  me — it  was 
too  good  to  waste  alone.  This  is  a  conviction 
I  shall  never  outgrow,  and  I  don't  believe  there 
is  anything  sadder  than  a  full  moon  shining  on 
a  spinster.  I  said  this  to  Frederica  one  day. 
She  had  come  over  from  the  house  of  her  first 
cousin  once  removed,  and  was  visiting  the  ken 
nels  with  me. 

"I  don't  think  they  see  the  moon,"  returned 
Frederica,  "or  they  wouldn't  be  spinsters." 

Frederica  wore  a  new  ring  on  her  right  hand, 
thinking  to  mislead  people  by  it,  and  had  evi 
dently  been  noticing  the  moon  very  hard,  which 
made  me  cross.  "That's  ridiculous,"  I  said. 
213 


THE    ACTRESS 

"I  saw  the  moon  from  my  car  window  all  the 
way  out  last  night,  and  there  were  two  stunning 
men  in  the  railway  carriage." 

"Well,  what  happened?" 

"Nothing.  They  had  been  to  see  our  play, 
and  were  commenting  on  my  ugliness.  One  of 
them  said  I  might  not  be  so  hideous  off  the 
stage,  and  the  other  said  I  couldn't  change  that 
face;  he'd  know  me  anywhere." 

"And  you  didn't  tell  him?" 

"  Of  course  not.  I  stared  at  the  moon  and 
they  stared  at  me,  and  the  sleuth  at  recognitions 
said  to  the  other  as  they  got  out:  'Rather  sweet, 
eh  ?'  That  was  all."  , 

"  It  was  almost  a  romance,"  sighed  Frederica. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "as  near  as  an  insult  could 
be.  Let's  take  the  puppies  into  the  garden." 

The  little  boy  and  girl  dogs  were  a  great  joy 
to  me  in  spite  of  the  moon.  Mrs.  Erskine — it 
wasn't  Ayredale,  after  all  —  let  me  name  the 
whole  litter;  so  the  poor  sickly  one  getting  the 
worst  of  it  I  called  Sarah  Fall-in-the-Mud,  and 
a  fine  boy  puppy  which  had  things  all  his  own 
way  was  named  Aary.  This  Mrs.  Erskine  said 
was  very  nice,  being  an  Ayredale;  though,  of 
course,  that  wasn't  my  reason.  Then  besides 
Larry  and  Benny  there  was  a  mean,  sleek  little 
214 


THE    ACTRESS 

girl  dog  that  was  always  sneaking  up  and 
getting  the  best  bone,  the  while  looking  perfect 
ly  innocent,  which  was  quickly  dubbed  Hester. 
She  was  a  contemptible  creature,  though  Mrs. 
Erskine  declared  she  was  really  the  best-bred 
of  the  lot,  and  I  said:  "No  doubt,  as  she  looks 
more  like  a  wiry-haired  pig  than  any  of  them." 
And  that  was  the  only  time  a  coolness  ever  fell 
between  me  and  my  landlady. 

"Aren't  they  dear?"  I  said  to  Frederica. 
One  had  been  named  after  her,  and  the  kanga 
roo  man  had  bought  it,  although  it  was  still 
boarding  with  mother.  "  Do  you  know  it  gives 
me  a  sort  of  thrill  to  see  that  little  thing  creep 
ing  into  your  arms.  I  know  just  how  its  body 
feels." 

Frederica  looked  at  me  gravely.  "  You  shouldn't 
feel  that  way  about  dogs,  Rhoda.  That  is  the 
way  a  woman  should  feel  about  a  child." 

I  returned  her  look  frankly.  "But  I  never 
do,  Frederica.  I  have  never  had  much  to  do 
with  babies,  you  know." 

"It's  not  from  experience;  it  should  be  an 
instinct." 

"And  do  you  feel  it,  Frederica?" 

The  color  came  into  her  face.     "I  have,  of 
late,"  she  said,  steadily. 
215 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Dear  old  Frederica,"  I  returned,  after  a 
pause,  "I  don't  think  I  quite  understand.  I 
know  my  work  and  beautiful  comradeship,  but 
I'm  a  little  mixed  about  the  other  things  in  life 

o 

which  make  a  woman  happy.  You  see,  I've 
never  chanced  to  go  deeply  into  anything  but 
acting.  Why,  of  late,  even  with  all  the  beauty 
of  this  place  entrancing  me,  I  am  so  glad  when 
I  get  on  my  make-up  I  could  shout." 

"That  isn't  right,"  said  Frederica,  decidedly. 
"That  makes  four  hours  against  twenty.  You 
don't  get  enough  out  of  your  day.  Why  can't 
you  get  some  joy  from  the  real  moon  and  the 
calcium  one,  too  ?" 

"I  tried  to,"  I  confessed,  with  a  ragged  little 
laugh.  "But  it  seems  I  must  choose  between 
the  real  moon  and  the  pretend  one,  and  I  do 
so  love  them  both."  That  was  the  nearest  I 
had  ever  come  to  confessing  to  Frederica. 
"And  it  seems  so  dreadful  to  me,"  I  continued, 
more  bravely,  having  once  begun,  "that  a 
man  can  pretend  to  love  a  woman  and  yet 
make  her  give  up  what  means  so  much  to 
her." 

"The  calcium  moon  ?" 

"Yes." 

"That's  a  wrong  way  of  looking  at  the  sub- 
216 


THE    ACTRESS 

ject.  One  must  want  to  give  it  up;  if  it's  a  case 
of  make,  she  can't  care  much  for  him." 

"You  think  she  can't  ?"  I  was  growing  hope 
ful  over  this.  Perhaps  some  one  didn't  love  a 
certain  person,  after  all! 

But  Frederica  crushed  me.  "Of  course,  it's 
impossible  to  love  the  stage  the  same  way  one 
would  a  man."  Strange,  that  was  of  Aaron's 
wisdom!  "But  I  don't  see  if  an  actress  is  lucky 
enough  to  love  one  of  her  own  kind  why  she 
can't  go  on  with  both.  Of  course,  I  wasn't  able 
to  choose.  Hugh"  —the  kangaroo  man—  "is 
my  affinity  —  worlds  couldn't  keep  us  apart. 
But  if  I  were  you,  Rhoda,  I'd  look  for  those 
who  love  both  kind  of  moons,  and  would  let 
you,  too.  Keep  among  your  own,  Rhoda;  they 
will  respect  your  work  and  not  bar  you  from  it." 

"You  don't  mean  Larry?"  I  exclaimed,  sus 
piciously. 

"Heavens,  no;  I  mean — I  mean  I  don't  mean 
any  one."  All  of  a  sudden  wary.  "Of  course, 
when  I  give  up  the  stage  there  won't  be  any 
tentacles  hanging  on  to  it  to  keep  me  there. 
I  am  one  of  the  failures,  but  I  don't  care  a 
smidgeon.  I'm  going  on  to  better  things." 

"No  one's  a  failure  who  has  made  the  stage 
finer  by  being  on  it,"  I  put  in,  positively.  And 
is  217 


THE    ACTRESS 

Frederica,  pleased  but  moist,  was  about  to  burst 
into  sobs  when  the  click  of  the  garden  gate 
introduced  the  kangaroo  man,  the  first  cousin 
once  removed,  and  the  composer,  who  was  the 
nephew  of  the  first  cousin,  and  therefore  Fred- 
erica's  second  cousin  once  removed — or  some 
other  difficult  thing — and  the  Farquhars. 

They  were  all  coming  to  have  early  "meat- 
tea"  with  me,  which  being  interpreted  means 
no  dinner  and  the  need  of  a  hearty  supper  after 
the  theatre,  and  I  was  somewhat  concerned,  as 
it  was  my  first  effort  toward  entertaining  on  a 
large  scale.  Puppies  are  always  splendid  top 
ics  for  opening  a  conversation,  however,  and 
Frederica's  first  cousin  once  removed,  whose 
name  was  Mrs.  Wallace — claiming  a  relation 
ship  with  the  Collection — set  the  ball  rolling 
pleasantly  by  asking  me  if  I  had  heard  recently 
from  Mr.  St.  John  Melford. 

She  thought  this  was  the  right  thing  to  do, 
for  in  her  day  young  ladies  didn't  change  their 
young  gentlemen  as  suddenly  as  they  do  in  this 
generation;  and  since  I  was  obliged  to  admit 
that  I  had  heard  nothing  beyond  a  note  on  the 
noon  of  his  departure  for  Norway,  every  line  in 
her  face  spelled  "jilted." 

This  going  away  of  Mr.  Melford's,  while  oc- 
218 


THE    ACTRESS 

curring  on  the  day  following  my  tantrum,  had 
not  been  occasioned  by  it.  He  really  had  in 
tended  going,  although  I  could  never  make 
Frederica  believe  it.  Even  the  kangaroo  man, 
being  very  moonish  at  the  time,  was  inclined 
to  look  at  it  romantically;  but  since  I  had  never 
the  courage  to  tell  of  my  antics,  I  could  not 
show  Frederica  his  hurried  letter  sent  in  receipt 
of  my  wires.  He  had  waited  around  a  little, 
he  wrote  me,  and  upon  going  outside  found  a 
cabman  who  had  seen  me  drive  off,  so  he  went 
to  my  lodgings  and  then  to  his  club,  where  my 
wire  was  awaiting  him,  and  though  he  veiled 
his  real  sentiments  with  polite  regrets  and  twelve 
gardenias,  he  evidently  thought  I  did  well  to  ef 
fect  an  escape  when  I  felt  a  scream  coming  on, 
and  never  suspected  it  was  the  abyss  widened 
by  the  four  shillings  which  had  separated  us. 

So  that  was  the  end  of  Mr.  Bunny  save  when 
Mrs.  Wallace  was  around.  It  was  she  who  had 
urged  me  into  the  music-room,  ages  back,  when 
the  composer  found  I  was  a  leaf,  and  I  think 
she  had  always  resented  my  not  going,  although 
"The  Aspen  and  the  Zephyr"  had  had  an  ex 
cellent  sale,  and  would  have  been  no  better  had 
I  not  left  to  put  coal  on  my  fire. 

Her  eyes  strayed  from  my  spinstered  condi- 
219 


THE    ACTRESS 

tion  to  the  long  composer  in  a  long  chair,  and  I 
found  Frederica's  and  the  kangaroo  man's  eyes 
doing  the  same  thing.  Even  the  puppy  Hester 
seemed  to  be  insinuating  that  I  was  fooling 
away  my  summer  while  a  long  composer  in  a 
lone  chair  was  so  near.  I  almost  kicked  Hester 

o 

as  I  bobbed  out  of  my  lonely  seat  and  rushed 
them  in  to  tea. 

Mrs.  Erskine  had  been  asked  to  meet  my 
friends,  and  I  found  her  in  the  hall  just  as  I 
was  ushering  the  portly  Mrs.  Wallace  into  the 
house;  indeed,  she  had  half  advanced,  but  not 
quite,  for  I  saw  my  dear  landlady's  face  change 
as  on  the  day  I  had  asked  for  references,  and, 
with  a  swift  movement  of  the  hand  indicating 
silence,  she  stepped  into  a  curtained  embra 
sure,  and,  unseeing,  Mrs.  Wallace  passed  her.  I 
never  disputed  a  decision  of  Mrs.  Erskine's — 
she  wasn't  the  kind  to  be  teased;  but  I  closed 
my  drawing-room  door  when  my  guests  were 
assembled,  and  went  back  into  the  hall. 

"Won't  you?"  I  prefaced. 

She  shook  her  head,  still  white.  "I  think 
not.  I'm  not  dressed,  and  I'll  look  after  things 
in  the  kitchen.  Does  she  live  in  the  village  ?" 

"She's  taken  a  river  house  for  the  summer, 
but  she  won't  come  here  again  if— 

220 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Thank  you." 

And  that  was  all  Mrs.  Erskine  and  I  said  on 
the  subject  for  a  long  time. 

"You  are  so  wonderful,"  she  had  once  re 
marked  to  me. 

"We  learn  other  things  than  acting  on  the 
stage,"  I  replied,  for  I  guessed  her  thoughts. 

"You  mean — 

"Yes;  the  minding  of  one's  own  affairs." 
And  Mrs.  Erskine  had  nodded  thoughtfully. 

We  walked  to  the  station,  Frederica  and  her 
Australian,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farquhar,  Meurice 
Wallace — for  that  was  the  composer's  name — 
and  I.  Mrs.  Wallace  had  jolted  home  in  a 
pony -trap;  the  composer  left  us  to  go  back 
to  the  river,  "for  there  is  melody  in  the  ripples 
to-day";  and  I  went  up  to  town  with  two  pair 
of  turtle-doves  to  watch  and  a  letter  from  Hester 
to  read. 

"I'm  fearfully  sorry,"  said  Bruce  Farquhar, 
as  he  tossed  it  to  me  on  the  train.  "I  brought 
it  down  that  you  might  get  it  a  little  earlier  and 
then  forgot." 

So  I  read  Hester's  letter,  which  was  short  and 

full  of  excitement,  for  Aaron  Adams  had  bought 

the  farm-house,  the  one  they  both  had  wanted, 

and  was  going  to  do  it  all  in  "chintz  and  Geor- 

221 


THE    ACTRESS 

gian  chairs,  and  everything  that  I  think  nice, 
and  father  chaffs  him  all  the  time." 

I  thought,  as  I  looked  out  of  the  window,  that 
I  might  not  see  the  couples  gazing  at  me  from 
out  their  yoke  of  conjugality,  that  no  matter 
where  I  stared  there  was  this  same  mating  going 
on — all  Nature  busily  engaged  in  pairing  off. 
And  who  was  I  to  fight  against  it  ? — I,  who 
loved  Nature  —  and  my  work.  "One  of  my 
own  kind,"  Frederica  said.  How  strange  that  I 
should  turn  to  Frederica  for  advice,  when  she 
had  always  turned  to  me  before  she  grew  wise 
over  this  taking- of -a- husband  matter!  How 
little  I  was,  after  all,  and  how  little  I  mattered 
except  in  the  theatre  at  night!  But  there  they 
needed  me;  there  they  couldn't  do  without  me! 
Yes,  I  would  stay  on,  and  for  the  other  twenty 
hours  of  the  day  and  night  I  would  follow  the 
lead  of  my  girl  friends. 

I  dwelled  on  these  things  during  the  play,  and 
watched  the  moon  through  the  carriage  windows 
on  my  way  to  Walton,  and  at  the  station  I  found 
the  composer  awaiting  me,  for  "the  air  was 
full  of  silver  notes"  and  he  couldn't  sleep.  So 
I  dismissed  the  fly — which  never  does — walk 
ing  to  Rosemary  Lane  with  "one  of  my  own 
kind."  And  the  moon  shone  on  us  both. 
222 


X 


I  AM  not  sure  that  artists  are  of  any  one  coun 
try.  When  Meurice,  who  was  the  composer, 
would  behave  badly,  or  what  Mrs.  Wallace 
would  call  badly  —  anyway,  not  see  why  we 
should  wear  clothes  or  why  the  Bible  was  any 
better  than  the  sayings  of  Confucius — his  aunt 
would  lay  heavy  emphasis  on  the  fact  that  his 
mother  was  a  Hungarian  and  his  grandmother  a 
Damascan.  Having  a  Damascan  in  the  family 
would  excuse  almost  anything.  I  had  never 
thought  of  there  being  any  modern  women  of 
Damascus.  We  see  a  few  men  now  and  then 
wearing  queer  head-dresses  and  selling  worm- 
eaten  embroideries  at  the  summer  resorts,  but 
Meurice  said  these  were  not  of  his  grand 
mother's  class,  and  that  was  the  English  side 
of  him  which  made  the  assertion. 

The  thing  that  I  like  about  Meurice,  or  what 
I  decided  should  be  my  one  great  reason  for 
liking  him,  was  the  pleasant  way  he  had  of  see 
ing  things  as  I  did,  and  of  immediately  adapt- 
223 


THE    ACTRESS 

ing  himself  to  my  whimsies  and  playing  them 
out  with  me.  But  it  was  a  mistake  for  me  ever 
to  have  let  him  know  this,  and  I  had  reason  to 
regret  it  bitterly,  particularly  when  Mrs.  Ers- 
kine  was  around.  The  trouble  with  the  com 
poser  was  he  never  knew  when  to  stop  having 
whimsies,  and  when  to  give  them  their  full 
fling;  and  simply  because  I  showed  once  or 
twice  that  I  was  pleased  with  his  pretends,  he 
would  indulge  in  them  in  the  middle  of  a  vil 
lage  street,  or  right  before  his  aunt,  or  even 
while  Mrs.  Erskine  was  combing  fleas  off  the 
dogs.  I  didn't  mind  so  much  before  his  aunt; 
she  would  sort  of  look  "Damascan,"  and  not 
put  it  down  to  my  baleful  influence.  Nor  did 
I  mind  his  listening  to  a  fairy  whispering  in  his 
ear  while  I  was  buying  stamps  in  the  little  post- 
office;  he  was  more  English  than  I  was,  and 
I  would  glare  at  the  polite  girl  selling  the  stamps, 
and  she  would  blush  apologetically  for  one  of 
her  own  race. 

I  never  realized  just  how  silly  it  all  was  until 
I  would  hear  him  asking  Mrs.  Erskine  if  she 
had  seen  anywhere  about  a  nut-brown  maid 
with  witching  eyes  and  kirtle  of  green,  who 
snared  men's  hearts  as  the  fowler  snares  a  bird, 
and  Mrs.  Erskine  would  go  on  combing  fleas  and 
224 


THE    ACTRESS 

reply  that  if  he  meant  Miss  Miller,  she  was  up 
stairs  putting  freckle  lotion  on  her  face.  I  think 
that  Mrs.  Erskine  was  more  vigorous  with  the 
comb  when  Meurice  was  about  than  when  he 
wasn't.  It  was  one  of  her  proud  boasts  that 
her  dogs  never  had  a  flea  on  them,  and  the  com 
poser  said  the  reason  was  that  they  were  all  on 
him. 

That  was  the  only  time  Mrs.  Erskine  ever 
laughed  at  anything  my  poor  young  man  said. 
Sometimes  when  we  three  would  be  taking  tea 
in  the  garden,  and  he  would  be  pretending  to 
see  Puck  under  a  plantain  leaf,  she  would  cry, 
irritably:  "Oh,  go  play  out  your  phantasies  on 
the  piano,  Mr.  Wallace!  That  is  where  they 
belong — at  your  fingers'  ends,  not  your  tongue's 
end." 

Then  he  would  call  her  a  Philistine,  but  go 
in  and  play  divinely,  while  I  would  watch  Mrs. 
Erskine's  stern  lines  relax,  and  a  soft,  beautiful 
look  come  over  her  face,  as  though  she  were 
not  a  woman  for  the  kennels  at  all,  but  one  to 
be  loved  and  caressed,  as  men  caress  our  kind. 

I  would  then  grow  very  proud  of  my  com 
poser,  and  think  how  nice  it  would  be  to  have 
a  man  all  my  own  who  could  make  fierce  creat 
ures  gentle  and  fill  our  hearts  with  delicious 

225 


THE    ACTRESS 

imaginings.  This  satisfaction  must  have  been 
most  evident  one  day,  for  Mrs.  Erskine,  who 
seems  to  read  me  like  a  book,  pulled  herself  to 
gether,  and,  assuming  her  dog  look  once  more, 
said,  briskly:  "It's  all  very  well,  my  dear,  but 
there  will  be  some  dreadful  hours  when  the 
grand-piano  will  be  silent." 

I  didn't  tell  Mrs.  Erskine  how  hard  I  tried 
not  to  think  of  those  hours,  or  to  contrast  them 
with  other  hours  with  other  people.  And  at 
the  close  of  every  beautiful  day  on  the  river  I 
would  go  up  to  town  saying  to  myself  how 
happy  I  was  to  have  it  all  ended — ended  at 
last — and  to  know  where  I  stood  and  what  my 
future  would  be.  It  never  occurred  to  me  at 
the  time  how  often  I  had  said  "It  is  ended"  as 
I  reached  the  various  turnings  along  the  little 
life  lane  I  trod  that  summer. 

I  think  the  first  finish  began  when  I  bade 
good-bye  to  Aaron  at  the  boat,  and  I  had  con 
tinued  ending  more  or  less  gloriously,  like  Patti's 
farewell  tours,  whenever  a  Hester  letter  was 
received.  Even  at  this  period,  when  I  knew  I 
had  reached  the  end  and  was  going  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  great  composer,  and  perhaps  some 
day  call  on  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Aaron  Adams  at  their 
chintz-hung  Long  Island  farm  —  even  at  this 
226 


THE    ACTRESS 

period  my  heart  would  begin  to  beat  noticeably 
as  I  entered  the  court  which  led  to  our  stage 
door,  and  while  I  would  be  saying,  "There  won't 
be  one,  he'll  never  write  again,"  I  would  be 
telling  the  old  commissionnaire — oh,  very  face 
tiously:  "The  right  letter,  now,  or  you'll  never 
get  this  shilling."  And  the  old  fellow  would 
answer,  "I  'ave  it  this  time,  miss,"  handing 
me  out  a  fat  epistle  from  a  thin  girl  in  the  West 
wanting  an  Irish  lace  collar,  and  "I'll  pay  you 
when  I  see  you."  But  at  the  sight  of  it  I  would 
have  to  go  on  acting,  for  my  pride  was  great 
in  small  matters  those  days,  so  he  always  got 
the  shilling. 

I  suppose  every  one  else  has  moments  when 
he  feels  a  pleasant  event  is  about  to  happen, 
when  every  reverberation  of  the  car -wheels 
clacks  out  agreeable  promises,  when  he  is  so 
sure  of  a  letter  or  "something"  that  he  doesn't 
walk  across  Waterloo  Bridge  as  he  should,  ad 
miring  St.  Paul's  on  one  side  of  him  and  the 
Houses  of  Parliament  on  the  other,  nor  does  he 
even  take  a  'bus  for  a  ha'penny  that  will  land 
him  at  Somerset  House  with  no  distance  to 
walk,  but,  instead,  hops  into  a  hansom  right 
from  the  platform  at  Waterloo  station,  terri 
bly  mindful  of  the  time  he  didn't  and  Amelia 
227 


THE    ACTRESS 

dropped  the  letter  in.     And  he  doesn't  see  any 
thing  at  all  until  he  finds  the  stage-doorman  wag 
ging  his  head  and  saying,  "Nothing,  miss" 
or  "sir,"  to  stick  to  the  sex  properly — and  then 
that's  another  occasion  when  the  end  has  come. 

Since  that  has  happened  to  all  of  us,  I  needn't 
feel  sorrow  for  myself,  only  these  disappoint 
ments  came  at  a  bad  time.  As  the  summer  wore 
on  we  were  growing  a  little  peevish.  I  didn't 
scold  Amelia  for  not  covering  my  cold  cream 
the  night  before,  nor  tell  Bruce  Farquhar  that 
he  might  "humor"  my  speech  in  the  last  act — 
smile  at  it  a  little,  so  as  to  give  the  audience  the 
tip  that  they  could  laugh  if  they  wished — in 
stead  of  looking  heroic  in  preparation  for  his 
own  line,  which  forbade  a  titter.  I  was  deter 
mined  I  shouldn't  work  off  my  excess  of  un- 
happiness  on  other  people. 

Besides,  Bruce  didn't  refuse  to  "take  my 
line"  purposely;  it  was  just  one  of  the  faults  he 
had  unconsciously  fallen  into  as  the  result  of 
a  long  run.  We  all  err  in  this  direction,  and 
when  we  are  very  exalted  in  our  position  we 
resent  the  criticism  of  the  little  stage-manager 
left  in  charge  of  the  play  after  the  big  one  has 
put  it  on.  I've  sometimes  seen  a  fine  perform 
ance  of  a  great  part  go  to  pieces  by  the  end  of 

228 


THE    ACTRESS 

a  season,  while  the  smaller  parts  were  being 
better  played,  because  the  big  actor  would  take 
no  suggestions  from  the  little  manager. 

We  are  always  particularly  hurt  if  we  are 
told  we  are  affecting  the  other  actors,  for  I  be 
lieve,  while  oceans  can  be  said  on  the  subject 
pro  and  con,  fair  play  is  the  foundation  of  every 
good  performance.  The  sense  of  justice  must 
be  strong  within  the  actor,  for  the  playing  of  his 
role  is  only  one  of  the  integral  parts  that  make 
his  performance  a  good  one.  He  speaks  lines, 
yes,  but  he  must  listen  to  more  than  he  speaks 
If  he  listens  half-heartedly  the  audience,  too,  will 
lend  only  half  attention,  and  that  will  weaken 
the  speaker's  hold  upon  his  auditors.  Then, 
too,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  other's  lines,  the 
listening  actor  can  add  conviction  to  the  thought 
expressed  by  a  smile,  by  a  look  of  sympathy, 
by  one  of  hate,  by  any  quick  response,  whatever 
the  emotion,  that  the  scene  may  demand.  An 
apathetic  look  or,  more  deadly,  a  quick  gesture 
which  distracts  the  eye  and  is  foreign  to  the 
theme,  will  turn  a  pleased  audience  into  one  not 
quite  sure  of  itself  and  a  little  inclined  to  be 
critical.  These  are  the  grievances  that  seem 
so  small  in  the  airing  that  we  hesitate  to  speak 
of  them;  instead,  we  nurse  our  wrongs  and  com- 
229 


THE    ACTRESS 

fort  ourselves  with  the  sad  thought  that  "  if  he 
keeps  it  up  I  can  get  back  at  him  in  the  last  act." 

Women  are  not  so  apt  to  fight  out  their 
grievances  as  are  men,  and,  immersed  in  my 
own  troubles,  a  fortnight  may  have  elapsed  be 
fore  I  found  that  Bella  was  greeting  me  with 
studied  politeness.  Though  dreading  it,  I 
forced  myself  to  go  to  her  dressing-room  on 
the  August  night  I  made  the  discovery,  carried 
the  theatre  cat  in  with  me,  made  it  "jump 
through,"  deplored  my  sunburn,  remarked  upon 
her  fine  skin,  and  finally  asked  what  I  had  done. 
Bella  wept,  and  the  dresser  stepped  out. 

"For  weeks,"  she  said,  "there,  while  I  am 
pleading  to  the  lynchers,  you  have  spoiled  it." 

"Bella!  No!"  I  cried,  in  consternation. 
"How?" 

She  wailed. 

"But  tell  me?" 

"You  were  unfastening  your  bonnet-strings." 

"Unfastening  my  strings  ?"  I  repeated,  dread 
ful  guilt  creeping  over  me,  for  I  must  have  been 
unconsciously  preparing  for  my  change  in  the 
wings.  "Could  I?  Do  I?  Bella,  no  one  laughs." 

"No,  but  they  are  willing  to.  Your  moving 
hands  distract  them,  and  they  don't  half  listen 
to  me." 

230 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  could  not  contend  against  this.  I  knew 
well  that  when  a  character  has  thoroughly  es 
tablished  herself  as  being  funny  an  audience 
looks  for  a  laugh  in  every  move,  and  I  knew  at 
last  why  Bella  swept  up  the  stage  in  the  third 
act  before  I  had  finished  my  long  speech  to  her, 
which,  in  turn,  had  made  me  go  nightly  to  my 
dressing-room  to  tell  Amelia  that  the  world  was 
full  of  pigs. 

Bella  and  I  buried  the  hatchet  amid  my  pro 
fuse  apologies  —  I  knew  I  need  not  speak  of 
the  last-act  episode — and  I  deplored  the  want 
of  frankness  among  women.  "Now,  look  at 
Bruce  and  Mr.  Benny,"  I  commented.  "Bruce 
and  he  had  it  out  just  bla-a — and  that's  the 
end!"  Then  I  paused  forlornly,  since  the  end 
had  been  a  miserable  one.  A  week  before — it 
was  a  close,  hot  night — Bruce  Farquhar  had 
told  Mr.  Benny  that  "it  isn't  square,  old  man, 
to  swing  that  pail  as  you  go  out.  It  gets  a 
laugh,  and  the  scene  is  serious." 

Mr.  Benny  was  on  his  way  to  his  burrow 
under  the  ground,  and  had  not  expected  this 
attack,  when  he  was  asked  to  step  into  the  room 
of  the  leading  man.  Once  he  might  have  wilted, 
but  this  trip  to  London  had  given  him  a  sense 
of  sureness  in  his  little  self  that  sometimes 
231 


THE    ACTRESS 

frightened  him,  although  this  he  hid.  It  was 
as  near  an  approach  to  "side"  as  a  gentle  soul 
like  Mr.  Benny  ever  could  assume. 

"  But  it's  the  business  of  the  play  to  carry  off 
that  pail,"  he  argued.  Bella  and  I  were  listen 
ing  through  our  thin  partitions.  "How  am  I 
agoin'  to  get  it  off  the  stage  ?  Shall  I  hide  it 
in  my  coat  ?" 

"You're  going  to  pick  it  up  and  carry  it  off 
as  you  did  at  rehearsals,  quietly,  not  like  a 
whirling  Dervish." 

This  whirling  Dervish  cut  Mr.  Benny.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  describe  a  half-circle 
with  the  pail  as  he  picked  it  up,  and  the  busi 
ness  of  doing  so  had  developed  into  a  recog 
nized  laugh,  and  an  ill-timed  one.  However, 
I  am  sure  the  little  old  fellow  was  unconscious 
of  hurting  the  line  that  followed  on  his  exit. 
But,  as  I  said,  it  was  a  sticky  night,  and  Mr. 
Benny's  rheumatism  was  bad,  and  Bruce  had 
been  up  the  night  before  with  his  wife,  who  had 
an  ulcerated  tooth.  So  Mr.  Benny  shouted 
back  at  Mr.  Farquhar,  knowing  a  thing  or  two 
about  a  whirling  Dervish:  "And  you  can't  tag 
me  with  that,  Farquhar.  We  used  to  have  'em 
in  the  circus,  but  they  had  the  centre  of  the  ring 
to  whirl  in,  where  the  leading  men  all  stand; 
232 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  corners  ain't  for  them."  Farquhar  gave  a 
growl  of  anger;  but  a  king  had  laughed  at  Mr. 
Benny,  and  on  he  went:  "And  I  want  to  say 
right  here,  I  allus  tumbled  fair,  when  I  was  a 
acrobat,  and  I've  allus  tried  to  act  that  way— 

"Yes,  that's  the  way  you  act,  all  right,  all 
right.  I'll  grant  you  that." 

There  was  something  in  the  curves  of  the 
interrupting  voice  of  the  leading  man  which 
turned  Mr.  Benny  very  quiet.  "What  way?" 
he  asked. 

"Why,  act  just  like  an  acrobat,"  replied  Mr. 
Farquhar,  cruelly. 

Amelia  and  I  gasped  on  the  other  side  of  the 
thin  partition.  Mr.  Benny  moved  slowly  tow 
ard  the  door;  we  could  hear  Bruce  Farquhar 
slapping  down  his  hair  with  his  military  brushes. 
In  the  hallway  the  little  comedian  paused. 
"You  win,"  he  said;  "but  you  can  be  mighty 
sure  of  one  thing,  I  never  swung  that  pail  a-pur- 
pose."  The  door  closed  and  Bruce  went  on 
with  his  change,  as  Bella  and  I  did  with  ours, 
and  when  we  met  outside  nothing  was  said 
upon  the  subject.  We  were  very  friendly  with 
Farquhar  and  with  Mr.  Benny.  These  were 
the  things  we  did  not  meddle  with,  for  the  stage 
is  the  greatest  school  of  discipline  in  the  world. 
16  233 


THE    ACTRESS 

This  happened  a  week  before  the  night  I 
squared  things  with  Bella,  and  it  had  made  us 
all  uncomfortable,  for  we  missed  Mr.  Benny's 
running  into  Bruce  Farquhar's  room  and  tell 
ing  him  where  he  had  found  good  American 
tobacco,  or  calling  to  us,  as  he  passed,  that  he 
had  stood  near  enough  to  the  Spanish  King  to 
have  pinched  him,  and  various  other  bits  of 
court  information.  Mrs.  Farquhar  had  been 
nicer  than  ever  to  the  little  fellow,  for  one  of  the 
points  on  which  theatrical  couples  pride  them 
selves  is  the  refusing  of  one  to  take  up  cudgels 
in  defence  of  the  other.  It  is  generally  declared 
by  American  managers  that  they  do  not  do 
this,  therefore  a  married  pair  is  considered  un 
desirable  in  a  company,  for  if  he  quarrels  with 
the  management,  she  will  also,  and  that  will 
mean  two  vacancies  instead  of  one.  Personally, 
I  have  found  them  rather  independent  of  each 
other — at  least  he  is  of  her  and  she  of  him— 
with  tears. 

However,  the  new  kind  of  rheumatism  medi 
cine  that  Bruce  Farquhar's  wife  had  offered 
Mr.  Benny  hadn't  done  him  any  good,  and  on 
the  night  I  was  leaving  Bella's  room,  thinking 
very  well  of  myself  because  I  had  grovelled, 
and  liking  almost  every  one  except  Hester,  I 

234 


THE    ACTRESS 

heard  a  commotion  on  the  stairs  leading  from 
the  underground  rooms,  and  laboring  up  the 
steps  came  big  Bruce  Farquhar  with  Mr.  Ben 
ny  in  his  arms.  A  doctor  followed,  and  a 
scared  dresser,  and  of  course  myself  immedi 
ately. 

"I'll  take  him  into  my  room,"  said  Bruce; 
"the  air  is  better."  Mr.  Benny's  white  lips 
moved  as  though  in  protest.  "Oh,  hush  up!" 
replied  our  leading  man.  "You'll  stay  right 
on  here  with  me  until  you  are  over  this." 

"What  is  it?"  I  whispered  to  the  doctor. 

"The  rheumatism  has  crept  up  around  his 
heart.  Oh,  no  danger,  I  hope,"  he  hastened, 
at  my  look.  "Let  him  lie  quietly  a  while,  and 
then  we'll  take  him  home." 

Mr.  Benny  caught  a  fragment  of  this  speech 
and  made  an  effort  to  lift  himself  into  a  sitting 
posture.  In  short  gasps  he  protested.  "I'm 
agoin'  on  that  stage — I  ain't  a  baby — I'll  get 
through  all  right."  Bruce  and  I  exclaimed  in 
one  breath,  and  the  doctor  made  awful  threats 
of  giving  up  the  case. 

"It's  unheard  of,"  he  asserted. 

"No,  it's  not,"  I  contradicted.  "At  home 
we  play  when  we're  almost  dying.  It's  a  sort 
of  silly  pride  with  us,  not  the  brutality  of  the 

235 


THE    ACTRESS 

management  at  all.  Besides,  our  understudies 
are  seldom  half  prepared." 

Mr.  Benny  swung  himself  off  the  couch. 
"Where's  my  grease-paint?"  he  demanded- 
The  doctor  watched  him  wonderingly;  his 
patient  had  been  almost  in  a  state  of  coma  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before,  but  Bruce  and  I 
understood.  We  knew  that  if  Mr.  Benny  kept 
his  senses  he  would  play  his  part.  Fortunately 
he  didn't.  Just  as  his  dresser,  who  had  wisely 
run  for  the  stage-manager,  reappeared  our  lit 
tle  fellow  reeled  and  pitched  into  Bruce' s  arms 
once  more. 

"Don't  give  him  anything  to  bring  him 
round,"  I  advised  the  doctor.  "If  you  do,  he'll 
get  up  and  play." 

"Hot  applications,"  said  the  man  of  medi 
cine. 

"Go  and  notify  the  understudy,"  said  the 
stage-manager. 

The  manager  was  not  at  all  concerned  over 
a  new  man  going  in  at  "Overture  and  begin 
ners,  please."  In  England  when  actors  feel 
ill,  not  are  ill,  they  "lay  off,"  and  the  under 
studies  are  rehearsed  every  week  with  clock- 
like  regularity.  They  are  generally  composed 
of  the  supers,  or  those  who  do  small  parts, 

236 


THE    ACTRESS 

and,  though  they  have  never  rehearsed  with  the 
members  of  the  company,  they  know  every  line 
and  every  bit  of  business. 

All  through  the  evening  we  worked  over  Mr. 
Benny.  Various  alcohol  lamps  used  for  after 
noon  tea  and  hidden  from  the  fireman  were 
suddenly  brought  forth.  Amelia  and  the  other 
dressers  kept  the  hot  cloths  going,  and  we  ten 
derer  ones  blistered  our  hands  wringing  them 
out.  The  doctor  had  difficulty  in  keeping 
Bruce's  room  clear;  overflow  meetings  were 
held  in  my  apartment,  and  the  call-boy  had  a 
busy  time  getting  us  up-stairs  for  our  cues. 

It  was  a  relief  to  me  to  be  able  to  cry  as  much 
as  I  pleased  over  Mr.  Benny,  as  he  had  no  one 
to  resent  it.  Once  a  young  comedian  whom  I 
played  opposite  had  a  sudden  attack  of  poison 
ing  in  the  theatre,  and  his  sufferings  were  so 
dreadful  to  behold  that,  while  I  had  never  cared 
much  for  the  young  man — he  cut  in  on  my 
laughs — I  wept  passionately  in  the  hallway  un 
til  his  wife  turned  on  me  with  a  look  of  keen 
suspicion.  "He  is  my  husband,"  she  remark 
ed,  chillingly,  and  that  taught  me  to  guard  my 
emotions  when  there  were  wives  around.  By 
the  end  of  the  second  act  the  pain  had  been 
driven  from  the  dangerous  region  of  the  heart, 

237 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  the  sufferer  was  able  to  reply  to  oft-repeated 
inquiries  of  "How  are  you,  old  man  ?"  as  friend 
ly  heads  were  stuck  in  at  the  door.  He  and 
Bruce  were  thick  as  thieves  without  a  word  of 
explanation  on  either  side. 

"I've  told  my  dresser  to  move  all  your  things 
up  here,"  our  leading  man  was  heard  to  say 
through  the  thin  partition,  "and  when  you're 
on  your  feet  again  you'll  stay  right  on  with 
me.  It's  hell  for  rheumatism  down  there." 
The  little  comedian  was  heard  to  murmur  feeble 
expostulations  and  words  of  thanks,  but  I  didn't 
stop  to  listen.  I  was  smiling  dizzily  through 
more  snuffles;  it  was  so  like  a  member  of  my 
dear  fraternity  to  claim  a  room  alone  for  the 
sake  of  his  position  and  then  share  it  with  one 
of  the  least  of  them. 

We  were  all  very  happy  and  close  together 
that  night,  using  great  diplomacy,  "firstly,"  in 
assuring  Mr.  Benny  that  his  understudy  got 
through  all  right — which  he  was  glad  to  hear — 
yet  delicately  insinuating  that  the  new  man 
couldn't  come  up  to  the  original,  which  he  was 
also  glad  to  hear.  And,  "secondly,"  nodding 
in  a  congratulatory  way  to  the  sweating  English 
understudy  and  saying,  "Splendid!"  or  "Per 
fectly  easy,  aren't  you  ?"  or  "Don't  seem  at  all 
238 


THE    ACTRESS 

nervous!"  All  of  which  did  us  no  harm  and  him 
a  great  deal  of  good. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  saw  very  little  of  his 
work.  It  is  a  breach  of  stage  etiquette  to  stand 
in  the  first  entrance  and  watch  a  terror-stricken 
understudy;  only  the  prompter  is  there  with  the 
book,  and  while  we  are  on  the  scene  we  are  so 
busy  trying  not  to  forget  our  own  lines,  when 
we  hear  the  cues  coming  to  us  in  a  strange 
voice,  that  we  do  not  particularly  notice  his 
performance. 

We  hear  sometimes  of  an  understudy  who 
gives  a  far  better  interpretation  of  the  role  than 
the  actor  whose  part  he  has  hurriedly  taken, 
but  it  must  be  a  very  bad  player  whom  he  has 
replaced.  It  may  not  be  altogether  the  under 
study's  fault;  at  the  end  of  a  week  his  per 
formance  may  easily  be  better  than  the  original 
one,  but  for  the  first  few  nights  his  voice  is  not 
in  accord  with  those  who  have  been  playing 
together,  and  the  audience  feels  this  lack  of 
undefined  harmony.  Laughs  are  lost  both  by 
the  old  players  and  the  new  one.  It  all  goes 
to  prove  once  more  that  the  playing  of  a  part 
consists  not  only  of  the  reading  of  lines  but  of 
the  actor's  alliance  with  his  co-workers;  and  if 
we  would  only  bear  in  mind  how  greatly  de- 
239 


THE    ACTRESS 

pendent  we  are  upon  one  another  we  would  not 
take  so  deep  a  pride  in  a  "personal"  success. 

But  this  is  wandering  far  from  Mr.  Benny. 
We  had  ructions  with  our  invalid  before  the 
evening  was  over.  He  would  go  to  his  lodg 
ings.  He  was  of  the  kind  that  still  dreads  hos 
pitals;  besides,  it  transpired  that  he  had  a  cat. 
Bruce  must  go  home  with  his  wife;  the  English 
men  were  willing,  but  I  saw  fear  in  the  patient's 
eyes,  and  knew  he  longed  to  be  among  his  own, 
so  Larry  was  to  spend  the  night  with  him — 
solemnly  promising  not  to  go  to  sleep — Bruce 
would  come  the  next  morning,  and  I  in  the 
afternoon.  Bella  and  Frederica  were  both 
eager,  but  we  pushed  them  away  as  extraneous 
matter. 

The  composer  did  not  meet  me  that  night; 
it  was  raining  and  the  water  had  a  sort  of 
Damascan  effect  upon  him — it  certainly  could 
not  be  English.  So  I  jogged  home  in  the  fly, 
and  was  awakened  much  earlier  than  I  would 
have  liked  the  next  morning  by  the  head  of  a 
large  dahlia  hitting  me  in  the  face.  It  had 
come  through  my  open  window,  and  the  thrower 
was  shamelessly  crying  out  in  the  lane:  "The 
red  rose  whispers,  she  is  late!"  Mrs.  Erskine, 
who  had  come  into  my  room  to  prepare  me  for 
240 


THE    ACTRESS 

what  was  in  the  lane,  went  to  the  window  and 
said,  "It  is  not  a  rose,  it  is  a  dahlia,  and  you 
hit  her,"  then  threw  it  back  at  him. 

Mrs.  Erskine  was  a  continual  question-mark 
those  days.  It  was  "How  can  you?"  every 
time  she  looked  at  me.  But  then  one  of  the 
large  dogs  had  brought  to  her  a  heart-shaped 
frame  with  a  certain  photograph  in  it,  which 
he  had  dug  up  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  garden. 
Goodness  knows  how  he  managed  it,  for  I  had 
worked  hours  burying  my  sorrow  the  day  after 
I  had  received  the  buying  -  the  -  farm  letter. 
Mrs.  Erskine  behaved  very  well  about  the 
frame,  just  as  though  such  things  happened 
every  day,  and  of  course  I  had  never  seen  it 
before. 

"What  a  fine  face,"  she  commented,  "and 
what  a  kind  one!" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  I  replied,  with  studied 
indifference.  "It  looks  selfish  to  me,  as  though 
it  would  ask  a  great  deal  and  give  nothing." 

"I  should  think,"  said  she,  "that  one  could 
easily  give  up  a  great  deal  for  such  a  man. 
Moreover,  that  what  a  woman  might  once  call 
a  'great  deal'  would  cease  to  be  great  and  be 
very  small  in  contrast  to  what  she  would  re 
ceive.  It's  hard  to  assure  a  young  girl  that 
241 


THE    ACTRESS 

there  is  nothing  so  wonderful  in  life  as  a  man's 
love.     She  must  find  it  out  for  herself." 

I  looked  at  Mrs.  Erskine  rebelliously. 

"There  is  nothing  greater  than  my  work!"  I 
cried. 

"There  is  no  comparison;  they  are  not  the 
same  species,"  she  responded,  quietly. 

Then  I  left  her  in  a  rush,  for  it  was  Aaron's 
voice  I  heard.  Aaron  and  Frederica  and  Mrs. 
Erskine,  all  so  different,  yet  all  harking  on 
the  same  thought.  I  didn't  see  the  heart- 
shaped  frame  again,  and  of  course  I  didn't  refer 
to  it. 

But  to  go  back  to  the  hitting-in-the-face-by- 
the-dahlia  morning,  I  was  soon  out  and  going 
toward  the  river  with  Meurice,  for  I  had  prom 
ised  him  the  whole  day,  and  since  it  had  to 
be  curtailed  in  order  to  sit  with  Mr.  Benny,  I 
wanted  to  give  him  what  time  I  could. 

Then,  too,  I  was  eager  to  tell  him  about  the 
excitement,  for  Meurice  was  always  interested 
in  my  affairs  in  the  theatre,  becoming  very  wild 
when  he  feared  I  wasn't  well  treated,  and  ad 
vising  me  to  refuse  to  play  or  to  demand  an 
apology  or  never  speak  to  them  again — all  of 
which  was  impossible,  and  made  me  sigh  for  a 
little  well-tempered  judgment. 
242 


THE    ACTRESS 

To  my  surprise,  he  didn't  want  to  hear  of 
Mr.  Benny's  sufferings.  "Don't,  don't!"  he  ex 
claimed,  almost  walking  out  of  the  punt  into 
the  water.  "Pain  is  imperfection;  let  us  put 
it  out  of  our  lives  as  much  as  we  can.  See  the 
swans  coming  to  greet  their  princess!" 

"No,  they  want  some  biscuit,"  I  answered. 
"Don't  be  selfish,  Meurice;  why  should  we  try 
to  forget  Mr.  Benny's  sufferings  ?  He  is  my 
faithful  little  friend,  and  you  say  we  shall  share 
all  of  each  other's  emotions  when  we  are — well, 
you  know — bound!" 

"Bound!  I  hate  the  word.  Say,  rather, 
woven  into  one." 

"All  right,  when  we  are  woven.  Are  you 
going  to  run  away  when  I  am  ill  ?  I  have  head 
aches,  you  know — sick  ones." 

The  composer  waved  the  dripping  punt  pole 
over  me.  "Desert  you,  little  brown  thing! 
Would  a  bird  desert  his  mate  ?  I  shall  be  near, 
dear,  always  near,  playing  sweet  harmonies  to 
lull  the  pain." 

I  was  resentful.  "Yes,  I  know  that  kind  of 
bird.  He  sits  out  in  the  sun  on  the  best  branch 
and  sings  his  head  off,  and  the  poor  lady-bird 
is  stuck  down  in  a  hole  in  the  tree,  and  every 
time  another  bird  looks  as  though  he  would 
243 


THE    ACTRESS 

like  to  call  on  her,  Mr.  Husband-bird  pecks  him 
off  and  then  goes  back  to  his  trilling." 

Meurice  thought  it  was  idyllic.  "Although," 
he  continued,  "I  shall  be  nearer  to  you  than 
that — I  have  decided  to  keep  a  small  piano,  at 
least,  in  our  sleeping- room;  sometimes  a  har 
mony  comes  quickly  to  me  that  I  must  play 
out,  not  note  down  dully  on  black  bars." 

I  looked  in  alarm  at  my  composer,  thinking  of 
a  certain  time  when  he  hunted  for  stray  leaves  all 
through  the  night  until  the  cook  gave  warning. 
I  tried  to  remember  just  how  I  became  engaged 
to  this  young  man.  And  it  afforded  me  some 
satisfaction  that  I  had  never  definitely  given  a 
promise.  We  had  just  drifted  into  present  con 
ditions,  were  scarcely  an  engaged  couple  at  all, 
for  I  had  not  a  ring  and  he  had  never  kissed 
me.  Once  he  had  tried,  and  called  me  "will- 
o'-the-wisp"  because  I  managed  to  slip  from 
his  arms,  and  afterward  he  composed  a  some 
thing  or  other  lengthily  called  "Maiden  Im 
maculate,  from  Your  Tower  of  Virtue,  Speak." 
It  made  me  sorry  and  ashamed  when  I  saw  the 
title  and  heard  the  gentle  music.  "For  the  fire 
is  not  yet  kindled,"  he  had  explained;  yet  way 
down  in  my  heart  I  knew  right  wrell  that  it  had 
been — but  not  for  him. 

244 


THE    ACTRESS 

What  made  me  most  suspicious  of  the  real 
eligibility  of  the  composer  was  the  complacent 
attitude  of  his  family  toward  his  marrying  an 
American.  (Of  course,  had  I  been  a  rich  Amer 
ican,  it  would  have  been  very  simple.)  And 
now  this-small-piano-in-his-sleeping-apartment 
idea,  coupled  with  the  recollections  of  the  good 
departing  cook,  occasioned  me  to  speculate  on 
the  advantage  of  having  a  composer  in  the 
family  but  not  in  the  house.  I  knew  Frederica 
was  guiltless,  for  she  was  mad  with  joy  over 
the  thought  of  having  me  kin  to  her,  although 
several  times  removed;  but  the  deadly  way  that 
Mrs.  Wallace — remotely  of  the  Collection — had 
of  boasting  of  her  nephew's  fame,  then  flying 
to  the  garden  whenever  he  began  working  on 
a  theme,  filled  me  with  future  dread. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections  Meurice  ran 
his  punt  into  another  boat,  which  was  his  uni 
versal  habit,  and  a  squeal  came  from  under  a 
green  parasol,  which  was  Mrs.  Wallace's,  and 
a  shout  of  expostulation  from  a  grufF  old  gentle 
man  sitting  by  her  side,  which  turned  out,  after 
apologies  and  introductions,  to  belong  to  Sir 
William  Kenton. 

Although  it  is  not  as  fine  to  have  a  "  sir  "  with 
you  as  it  is  to  have  a  "  lord,"  I  could  see  that 
245 


THE    ACTRESS 

Mrs.  Wallace  was  pleased,  and  so  was  I,  although 
I  should  have  liked  him  just  as  much  had  his 
name  been  only  Bill.  Not  that  I  don't  like 
titles — they  are  very  decorative— but  that  Sir 
William  would  have  appealed  to  me  unadorned. 
He  was  shrewd  and  crusty,  and  brave  about  the 
mouth,  keeping  it  in  a  firm  line  when  it  would 
like  to  have  been  a  little  tremulous.  Mrs. 
Wallace  told  me,  when  we  all  went  ashore  at 
one  of  the  river  inns  to  have  some  ginger-beer, 
that  he  had  a  great  sorrow  in  his  life  which 
he  hid,  also  that  he  was  to  stay  two  days  with 
them,  so  she  hoped  Meurice  wouldn't  compose 
at  night,  and  couldn't  I  influence  him. 

It  was  not  my  influential  day  with  Meurice. 
I  had  already  vaguely  alluded  to  the  necessity 
of  going  to  town  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  I 
saw  he  was  going  to  be  tantrumish  about  it. 
Perhaps  it  was  to  avoid  the  full  force  of  his 
petulant  objections  that  I  again  referred  to  my 
leaving  while  we  were  all  four  sitting  about  an 
iron  table  on  the  inn  lawn.  This  was  cowardly 
in  me,  but  I  didn't  see  any  reason  why  Mrs. 
Wallace,  being  a  blood  relation,  shouldn't  share 
some  of  his  disposition  when  crossed,  and  I 
intuitively  felt  that  Sir  William  would  be  on 
my  side. 

246 


THE    ACTRESS 

Once  or  twice  previous  to  that  day  I  had 
stepped  aside,  figuratively  speaking,  to  wonder 
at  the  seeming  interchange  of  natures  which 
was  permitting  the  composer  all  the  vagaries 
while  I  walked  the  earth  soberly,  attaching  my 
self  to  his  balloon-like  fantasies  like  a  drag- 
anchor.  I  found  it  was  more  tiring  than  the 
coping  with  a  sterner  character,  and  as  I  looked 
forward  to  a  lifetime  of  it  I  thought  how  grate 
ful  should  Mr.  St.  John  Melford — and  Aaron 
—be  for  escaping  from  me  so  successfully. 

The  Wallace  Collection — meaning  the  aunt 
and  nephew — entertained  different  objections 
to  my  going  to  Mr.  Benny.  Meurice  said  the 
sky  was  like  a  speckled  trout,  and  a  tryst  was 
a  tryst.  Mrs.  Wallace  thought  that  it  wasn't  at 
all  nice  for  a  young  girl  to  enter  the  sleeping- 
room  of  a  man,  no  matter  how  ill.  The  com 
poser's  reason  I  waived  impatiently  aside;  his 
aunt's  filled  me  with  that  impotent  rage  which 
the  Philistine  engenders.  Instinctively  I  turned 
to  Sir  William,  as  did  Mrs.  Wallace.  The  old 
man  had  unleashed  the  stern  line  of  his  mouth. 

"Once    upon    a   time,"   he    said,   gently,    "I 

would  have  thought  you  were  solely  right,  Mrs. 

Wallace.     Now   I    know   that   there    are   other 

people  who,  as  they  look  from  out  their  soul 

247 


THE    ACTRESS 

windows,  do  not  see  the  same  sights,  and  yet 
their  vision  is  clear,  too.  I  have  been  a  long 
time  finding  this  to  be  so,  and  I  have  not  yet 
generally  admitted  it." 

I  found  the  moment  following  to  be  more  im 
pressive  than  my  simple  case  seemed  to  war 
rant.  Mrs.  Wallace  looked  at  him  strangely, 
and,  while  I  had  won,  I  felt  that  some  one  else 
had  conquered  a  still  greater  cause.  I  rose  to 
go,  clasping  the  hand  of  Sir  William  and  de 
clining  his  escort  to  the  station.  Msurice  had 
refused  to  accompany  me,  and  Mrs.  Wallace 
shrugged  off  his  conduct  lightly  as  a  lover's 
quarrel,  but  to  me  it  was  a  shadow  of  the  future 
blocking  out  the  day's  sun. 

I  sat  with  Mr.  Benny  all  that  afternoon  and 
I  sat  with  him  that  night.  Mrs.  Farquhar's 
tooth  was  worse,  the  Englishmen's  wives  were 
awaiting  them  in  the  country,  Larry  was  tired 
out,  and  I  was  glad  not  to  go  down  to  Walton 
for  a  little  space.  A  nurse  had  been  procured, 
but  while  Mr.  Benny  was  ill  he  was  very  con 
scious,  and  I  saw  in  his  eyes  that  he  wanted  his 
own  "folks"  near  by. 

"It's  a  perfect  shame,"  said  the  stage-man 
ager  to  me,  "with  a  matinee  to-morrow;  but 
do  what  you  think  best."  There  wasn't  the 
248 


THE    ACTRESS 

smallest  talk  of  the  propriety  of  the  matter  or 
the  least  thought  of  it.  If  Mr.  Benny  was  ill, 
why  shouldn't  I  sit  through  the  night  with 
him  ? 

I  had  snatches  of  sleep  on  a  hard  little  sofa 
with  obtrusive  arms;  but  when  the  spasms  of 
pain  were  bad  I  helped  with  hot  cloths,  and 
afterward  sat  by  the  bed  and  talked  to  him  of 
our  "kid"  days,  as  Mr.  Benny  put  it,  for  we 
had  both  come  from  little  Western  towns,  only 
his  town  had  grown  into  a  city  before  I  was  as 
suming  citizenship.  "  Remember  band  nights  ?" 
panted  Mr.  Benny. 

"Remember!"  I  responded,  laughing  softly. 
"Will  I  ever  forget  them?  Always  in  a  hurry 
to  do  up  the  dishes;  and  some  awful  nights 
when  there  was  company,  strains  of  the  first 
number  filtered  up  the  street  clear  from  the 
court-house  square  before  we  were  half  through. 
Oh,  the  agony  of  that!" 

"Same  with  me,"  chuckled  Mr.  Benny,  pain 
fully,  "only  it  was  the  cow  to  milk.  I  lived 
with  my  uncle  to  get  a  little  schooling  before 
my  mother  taught  me  tumbling.  Gee!  them 
was  good  days,  only  I  didn't  know  it." 

There  was  a  silence  broken  by  a  giggle  from 
me. 

«7  249 


THE    ACTRESS 

"What  yer  thinkin'  of?"  demanded  the  in 
valid. 

"Perhaps  I  shouldn't  talk,"  I  returned,  turn 
ing  to  the  nurse,  who  was  looking  out  at  the 
early  dawn. 

"Go  on,  Miss  Miller,"  she  replied,  "this 
heart  medicine  stops  the  pain,  but  stimulates 
him;  he  won't  sleep  for  a  little." 

"I  was  thinking  of  my  first  beau,  Dave  Con 
nor,"  I  went  on.  "He  was  very  grand,  as  his 
father  was  sheriff,  and  he  drove  around  in  a 
buggy  on  band  nights,  while  I  stood  at  Colter's 
drug  store  with  the  girls.  It  was  two  years 
before  he  had  the  courage  to  ask  me  to  drive 
with  him,  and  that  night  their  old  family  horse 
scared  at  'Poet  and  Peasant,'  and  ran  clear 
home  to  the  barn  with  the  whole  town  after  us. 
The  poet  and  peasant  were  completely  de 
serted,  whereas  Dave  and  I  were  found  still 
sitting  in  the  buggy  frightened  to  death,  while 
the  horse  was  eating  hay  from  off  the  barn' 
floor.  We  were  about  twelve  years  each — in 
cluding  the  horse." 

"Girls  never  took  much  to  me,"  confessed 

Mr.    Benny.     "I  was   always   undersized,  and 

of  course  I  only  liked  the  big  ones,  who  didn't 

know  I   was  on  earth.     Used   to  want  to  be 

250 


THE    ACTRESS 

loved,  too;  had  a  sort  of  hollow  feeling  all  the 
time  that  no  amount  of  my  aunt's  pie  could  fill. 
They  was  generous  with  the  pie,  my  folks  was, 
but  they  wasn't  the  kind  to  lavish  kisses  round, 
and  I  tell  you  a  child  needs  it." 

The  nurse  gave  her  charge  a  spoonful  of 
medicine  while  I  chewed  the  cud  of  rather  bit 
ter  reflections. 

"I  think  you're  right,"  I  finally  answered. 
"I  lived  with  distant  relatives,  and  they  were 
unvarying  in  their  kindness,  but  demonstrative 
affection  was  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  evil 
passion.  I  didn't  go  out  oT  my  own  home  to 
get  it,  as  some  girls  did,  but  I  put  it  in  my  work 
on  the  stage.  I  felt  for  years  that  I  could  do 
without  the  love  of  a  human  being;  it  didn't 
seem  to  me  necessary,  since  love  and — and  kisses 
had  always  been  withheld  from  me,  so  I  just 
put  it  in  my  work,  and —  I  paused  as  though 
the  subject  was  too  big  for  words. 

"Tain't  right,"  said  Mr.  Benny,  simply, 
with  a  drowsy  note  in  his  voice  which  we  were 
glad  to  hear.  "But  it  ain't  too  late  for  you; 
you're  a  girl  yet;  get  it  somehow  or  other.  I 
loved  a  woman  once;  she  wasn't  a  good  wom 
an,  but  I  ain't  ever  been  sorry  that  I  loved 
her." 

251 


THE    ACTRESS 

He  told  me  a  little  more  of  her,  and  after 
awhile  he  dozed  off  and  the  nurse  was  much 
gratified.  "He'll  sleep  into  the  day  now,"  she 
said  to  me. 

I  found  myself  suddenly  very  tired,  and  the 
woman  eyed  me  kindly.  "Go  down  into  the 
room  they  have  reserved  for  me,"  she  said. 
"I'll  wake  you  in  good  time." 

So  for  the  next  three  hours  I  slept  uneasily, 
still  clad,  and  long  before  the  matinee  was  in 
to  bid  good-bye  to  Mr.  Benny,  who  was  surely 
on  the  mend  and  very  cheery.  "I  sha'n't  for 
get  this,"  he  commented,  as  I  was  leaving. 

"Oh,  hush  up!"  I  answered,  which  seems  to 
be  the  usual  theatrical  reply  to  stop  all  bursts 
of  gratitude. 

At  midnight  I  stepped  heavily  from  the  rail 
way  carriage;  my  head  was  swimming  from  ex 
haustion,  my  back  aching,  the  wires  in  my  brain 
were  twisted  in  a  knot.  Beyond  the  official  at 
the  gate  I  descried  the  figure  of  Meurice,  and 
with  a  thrill  of  tenderness  I  walked  weakly  tow 
ard  him — his  strength  would  rest  me.  "You  re 
ceived  my  wire,  Meurice  ?" 

"Yes.  What  madness!  If  my  aunt  had  not 
been  quieted  by  Sir  William,  I  am  sure  she 
would  have  come  to  town  and  said  a  few  things 
252 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  you,  but  that  queer  old  duffer  claimed  you 
were  quite  right." 

"Well,  don't  you  scold,  Meurice;  I  am  not 
up  to  anything  to-night;  I  am  beaten  out. 
Where  is  the  fly  ?" 

"Scold!  Darling  bird,  I  never  felt  so  unlike 
it  in  my  life.  As  for  the  fly,  we'll  do  without  it, 
dear.  The  night  is  perfect,  so  I  sent  it  back." 

I  stopped  and  stared  at  him.  "  But,  Meurice, 
I  am  deadly  tired.  How  can  I  walk  two  miles 
to-night  ?  Why  don't  you  think  of  me  ?" 

"Of  you  ?  I  think  of  nothing  else!  Of  you 
close  by  me,  in  the  soft  black  night,  the  sweet 
smell  of  the  pines,  and — 

I  broke  in  upon  his  rhapsody.  "Come  on, 
then;  but  I  must  lean  on  you." 

"Lean  on  me,  dear,  lean  your  soul  upon  my 
soul." 

"Meurice,  it's  not  my  soul  alone  that's  weary, 
it's  my  legs." 

"Rhoda!"  breathed  my  fiance. 

Defiantly  I  set  my  teeth  while  we  went  on  in 
silence.  Occasionally  he  would  stop  to  half 
hum  a  bar  of  music.  "It's  torturing  me;  I 
can't  get  the  harmony;  I'm  nearly  mad." 

"I'm  sorry.  Have  you  tried  it  on  your 
piano  ?" 

253 


THE    ACTRESS 

"I  tried  it  all  last  night." 

"Oh,  Meurice!  And  poor  Sir  William — how 
did  he—  ?" 

"Behaved  outrageously,  my  dear!  He  sleeps 
to-night  at  the  inn.  He  is  not  spiritual, 
Rhoda." 

"Even  the  thing  you  care  for  becomes  an 
agony  sometimes,  and  Sir  William  may  not 
care  for  music.  Why,  to-night  I  thought  I 
never  should  drag  through  my  scenes.  It  seems 
— it  seems  unfair,  sometimes,  that  women,  who 
are  weaker  than  men,  should  have  to  work  so 
hard;  don't  you  think  so,  Meurice?" 

I  had  never  advanced  this  theory  before  to 
any  one;  I  had  never  thought  of  it.  But  I  was 
hungry  for  the  protecting  quality  of  a  man — 
for  something  stronger  than  myself  to  rest  me. 

Meurice  became  reproachful.  "Nestling! 
Your  art,  can  you  speak  ill  of  it  ?" 

"No,  I  won't.  But  can't  you,  don't  you, 
hate  it  ?  It  has  exhausted  me!" 

"Ah,  art  is  a  cruel  mistress" — airily  this — 
"but  how  fortunate  we  both  are  to  possess 
gifts  from  the  gods!" 

I  was  caring  very  little  for  the  gods  and  the 
gifts  they  bestowed,  and  I  pursued  my  subject. 
"But  shall  I  not  give  it  up,  Meurice,  when  we 
254 


THE    ACTRESS 

are  married  ?"  Even  as  I  asked  this  question 
I  was  astounded  at  myself. 

"No,  Rhoda,  no;  what  would  the  gods  say  ?" 

I  stumbled  over  a  stone  and  drew  in  my 
breath  sharply.  "I  don't  care  a  fig  about  all 
Olympus  in  a  bunch.  What  will  my  husband 
say,  that's  what  I  want  to  know,  to  his  wife 
earning  her  own  living  ?" 

"Money — pooh!  What  is  that?  Throw  it 
to  the  swine!" 

"I  probably  shall!"  -which  the  composer 
didn't  get.  "But  leaving  you  at  night,  toasty 
and  warm  by  the  fire,  while  I  go  to  my  work; 
how  will  that  look,  Meurice  ?"  I  waited  anx 
iously  for  his  reply.  It  was  as  though  my 
future  hung  upon  it. 

"I  shall  be  awaiting  you  at  midnight.  We 
will  talk  of  the  play,  and  I  shall  do  my  latest 
music  for  you." 

I  could  not  answer.  There  was  a  pounding 
in  my  head  and  in  my  heart;  there  was  a  surg 
ing  within  me  like  a  protest  of  angry  seas,  like 
the  upheaval  of  an  earthquake.  It  was  all  so 
queer.  I  was  arguing  from  the  wrong  stand 
point.  Meurice  was  in  my  place  and  I  was  in 
— whose  ?  I  don't  know  how  long  this  went  on. 
I  know  as  we  came  to  Rosemary  Lane  and  I  saw 
255 


THE    ACTRESS 

from  away  off  Mrs.  Erskine's  beacon-light  in 
the  hall — the  "anxious  light"  she  called  it — I 
know  that  without  warning,  without  the  mighti 
ness  of  deep  feeling,  my  composer  tilted  up  my 
chin  and  caught  my  lips  between  his  own.  I 
know  I  brought  my  hands  against  his  breast 
with  a  force  born  of  rage  and  pushed  him  back. 
He  made  an  exclamation,  but  I  stopped  him  in 
a  rush  of  words. 

"Don't,  don't!  I  hate  you!  It's  my  fault, 
not  yours.  I  love  some  one  else.  I  have  for 
months,  but  I  didn't  know  it.  I  never  can  kiss 
any  one  in  the  world  but  that  one  man,  and 
what's  the  use  in  going  on  ?  It's  just  been  a 
pretend,  but  I  tried  to  believe  in  it;  I  did  really. 
He  doesn't  care  for  me;  let  that  be  your  com 
fort.  I'll  be  alone  for  the  rest  of  my  life;  but 
I'd  rather  be  than  go  through  the  awfulness  of 
the  pressure  of  a  man's  lips  against  my  own 
when  I  don't  love  him.  I'm  sorry,  oh,  I'm  sorry, 
but  what's  the  use  of  trying,  for  I  love  him,  I 
love  him,  I— 

That  carried  me,  running,  to  the  door,  which 
was  held  open  by  anxious  Mrs.  Erskine,  and  I 
sank  to  the  floor  as  it  banged  shut.  I  didn't 
faint;  I'm  not  that  kind.  Mrs.  Erskine  ex 
tinguished  the  light  and  we  were  motionless  in 
256 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  dark.  We  heard  the  composer  knock  once 
upon  the  door,  then  turn  to  go,  and  we  caught 
his  ejaculation. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  were  his  words. 

"That's  the  best  thing  he  ever  said,"  asserted 
Mrs.  Erskine.  "Come  to  bed." 

She  undressed  me  and  said  nothing,  brought 
me  a  sleeping-draught,  and  kissed  me  good 
night. 

I  lay  for  a  long  time  quietly,  at  peace  with 
the  elements  which  had  been  so  long  warring 
within  me.  I  knew  myself  at  last.  I  acknowl 
edge  my  defeat,  and  it  was  sweet. 


XI 


A  SLEEP  without  a  twitch  of  the  limbs  or 
•*V  the  slow  turning  of  the  body;  a  creeping 
of  the  sunlight  up  the  Venetian  blinds  until  it 
reached  my  face;  an  imperious  voice  through 
the  window — a  woman's  voice,  associated  dimly 
with  old  masters;  oh  yes — but  drowsily— Mrs. 
Wallace.  "She's  sleeping,  ma'am" — this  in  an 
accent  that  bespoke  a  maid.  A  drawing  up  of 
the  sheet  over  my  face  to  keep  out  the  sun, 
more  heavy  sleep.  A  commotion  on  the  stairs, 
some  one  coming  up  and  some  one  stopping 
her.  The  firm  voice  of  Mrs.  Erskine  above  the 
maid's,  "She  cannot  be  aroused,"  then  an  ex 
clamation  from  some  one  coming  up,  and  after 
that  so  deep  a  quiet  that  its  impressiveness 
awoke  me. 

"So  it's  you,  Jane  Kenton" — this  from  the 
Collection  after  the  pause  became  an  abyss  of 
silence. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  from  Mrs.  Erskine. 

"Does  your  father  know?" 
258 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Know  what?" 

"That  you  are  back  in  England." 

"I  think  not.  I  hold  no  communication  with 
my  father." 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  and  keeping  lodgers!" 

"Lodger!" 

"Rhoda  told  me  she  was  living  with  a  Mrs. 
Erskine.  Am  I  to  be  deceived  by  every  one  ?" 

"There  is  no  deception;  she  doesn't  know. 
I  have  a  right  to  have  a  lodger,  and  to  say  I'm 
Mrs.  Erskine.  It  was  my  mother's  name." 

"You  have  a  right  to  do  anything  you  wish 
except  to  keep  a  young  girl  who  will  soon  be  of 
my  family  in  ignorance  of  what  you  are." 

"Mrs.  Wallace!" 

"My  dear  Janet,  I  know  and  love  Sir  William; 
his  friends  cannot  forgive  your  treatment  of 
him." 

"And — and  my  father!     How  does  he  feel  ?" 

There  was  an  eager  note  in  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Erskine.  I  sat  up  in  bed  straining  my  ears 
shamelessly. 

"As  we  feel;  how  else  should  he  ?" 

"A — ah!"     It  was  an  exhalation  of  pain. 

Mrs.    Wallace    harked    back    remorselessly: 
"And   all   this   time  you  have   been   imposing 
upon  Miss  Miller,  who  will  be  one  of  us." 
259 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Yes/*  The  voice  of  my  landlady  faltered. 
"But  she  was  so  charming,  and  loved  the  dogs, 
and  I  was  glad  to  have  the  money." 

There  was  a  heavy  movement  on  the  stairs 
as  though  an  army  were  advancing.  "I  must 
speak  with  her." 

"You'll  tell  her?" 

"I  must  do  my  duty." 

"I  would  rather  be  the  one  myself." 

"You  are  a  little  late.  Besides,  there  are 
other  matters."  I  shivered.  "She  has  boxes 
in  the  storehouse  ?" 

There  was  a  pause,  then  a  crossing  on  the 
stairs.  "I  will  send  them  up,  but  it  is  cruel  to 
wake  her.  She  is  much  exhausted." 

"So  am  I,"  with  bitter  majesty.  "Which 
door  ?"  More  rustling. 

At  my  answer  Mrs.  Wallace  stepped  into  my 
room,  pulled  up  the  blind,  and  covered  a  large 
chair  by  the  bed.  She  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak;  tremulously  eager — after  all,  it  had  its 
piquant  note,  this  discovery.  But  I  forestalled 
her. 

"I   heard   you   on   the    stairs,"    I   prefaced. 
'There    is    something  —  well,   what  you    call 
'wrong'  with  my  Mrs.  Erskine.     I'd  rather  she 
would  tell  me." 

260 


THE    ACTRESS 

But  Mrs.  Wallace  was  not  one  to  be  robbed 
of  an  opportunity.  In  fear  of  losing  the  situ 
ation  by  further  revelations  she  rushed  on  in 
coherently: 

"Eloped,  my  dear,  and  a  poor  weakling,  too 
—to  France  they  went,  of  course — that  was  bad 
enough,  but  afterward  to  find  him  married- 
yes,  married — had  been  for  five  years — some 
ne'er-do-weel,  no  doubt.  It  quite  broke  his 
heart — her  father's  heart.  Sir  William  Kenton 
is  her  father.  Think  of  them  being  within  a 
stone's-throw  of  each  other,  but  he  must  never 
know.  Thank  Heaven,  he  goes  away  to-day! 
And  then  the  worst — she  wouldn't  leave  him 
—your  Mrs.  Kenton — no,  lived  on  with  him, 
after  she  learned  the  truth — a  married  man — 
in  France,  of  course.  She  held  her  head  high 
through  it  all,  never  pleaded  for  forgiveness  of 
Sir  William  after  the  man  died,  never  wrote  to 
him,  never  touched  the  allowance  he  so  mag 
nificently  made  her.  And  now  we  find  her 
here,  raising  fine  dogs — perfectly  shameless." 
Mrs.  Wallace  gasped. 

"Well,  and  what  else  ?"  I  sandwiched. 

"What  else!     Rhoda,  have  you  gone  mad, 
too  ?     You  must  have.     What  did  you  do  to 
my  poor  nephew  ?    All  night  on  the  piano, '  dis- 
261 


THE    ACTRESS 

cords  from  the  heart*;  but  we  can  have  more  of 
this  afterward;  now  you  must  pack  your  things." 

"What  for?" 

"You  must  leave  at  once.  Help  me,  my 
child.  I  am  here  for  Meurice — for  Meurice  I 
take  you  from  this  house.  I  had  expected  to 
act  only  as  peacemaker,  now  I  find  I  have  a 
more  Spartan  duty." 

"But  I'm  not  going." 

"Not  going?  I  have  told  you — where  you 
are." 

I  rose  and  pulled  a  dressing-gown  about  me. 
"Dear  me,  those  thin  things,  just  lace  and 
ribbon,  quite  indecent!"  murmured  Mrs.  Wal 
lace.  That  human  element  in  my  guest  brought 
her  nearer  to  me,  yet  I  felt  the  necessity  of 
fighting  on  my  feet. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Wallace,"  I  began,  "I  know  you 
want  to  shelter  me  because  I  may  be  of  your 
family—" 

"Precisely,"  said  Mrs.  Wallace. 

"But,  believe  me,  I  shall  never  be.  I  can't 
go  into  all  that  now,  but  I  don't  love  Meurice, 
and  you  mustn't  urge  a  reconciliation.  It's 
over.  He'll  soon  stop  playing  discords  and  go 
back  to  pastorals  again.  I  know  enough  of 
the  artistic  temperament  to  grasp  that  quite." 
262 


THE    ACTRESS 

Mrs.  Wallace  sneered.  "  Judging  by  your 
self,  you  mean  ?" 

I  laughed  wisely.  "Oh  no.  I  fear  I'm  not 
an  artist,  I'm  just  a  woman.  But  that  doesn't 
matter  now.  Go  home,  please;  you've  been 
most  kind,  but  I'm  as  happy  here  as  I  ever  shall 
be  anywhere." 

"But,  my  dear,  as  a  member  of  the  Society 
for  Young  Girls  Seeking  Situations  in  the  City 
I  can't  let  you  stop  on  in  this  place." 

I  looked  at  Mrs.  Wallace  in  rebuke.  "The 
biggest  thing  about. you  English  is  the  minding 
of  your  own  affairs;  it  is  where  the  universal 
theatre  and  the  British  race  join  hands.  Now, 
this  is  no  concern  of  mine.  I  love  Mrs.  Ers- 
kine,  and  she  is  a  good  landlady,  therefore  I 
stay  on." 

Mrs.  Wallace  was  a  little  mollified  by  this 
high  praise  of  her  own  country,  yet  she  was 
honest.  "We  mind  our  own  affairs,  my  child, 
when  the  truth  is  not  thrust  upon  us;  when  it  is, 
we  must  cling  to  the  dictates  of  society." 

"Then  that  is  where  the  universal  theatre 
and  the  British  race  diverge,"  I  mused.  "We 
believe  in  morality,  we  teach  it  to  our  children, 
but  at  no  time  do  we  follow  the  dictates  of  so 
ciety  so  long  as  we  are  comfortable." 
263 


THE    ACTRESS 

There  was  a  finality  about  this  speech,  de 
nuded  of  all  sentiment,  which  brought  Mrs. 
Wallace  out  of  her  chair.  A  look  was  in  her 
face  as  of  one  who  had  done  her  duty,  and 
mixed  with  it  a  certain  new-born  thankfulness 
which  would  suggest  that,  after  all,  there  could 
be  worse  things  in  her  family  than  a  piano  going 
through  the  night.  She  lost  none  of  her  dignity 
in  her  retreat;  she  would  have  termed  it  a  with 
drawal. 

"I  fear  this  must  be  good-bye,  Miss  Miller." 

I  nodded  in  assent,  and  then,  a  little  eagerly, 
for  I  didn't  want  her  to  misunderstand  me  or 
my  people:  "She  is  alone  now,  Mrs.  Wallace, 
and  she  must  have  suffered  terribly.  She  needs 
me.  Oh,  I  am  sure  Christ  would  do  the  same 
if  He  were  staying  in  the  house." 

Mrs.  Wallace  held  up  her  lorgnon  and  gazed 
at  me  coldly.  "You  take  more  upon  yourself 
than  I  would  assume,  were  my  soul's  safety 
still  uncertain,  when  you  bring  into  this  sordid 
atmosphere  so  remote  a  being  as  our  Lord." 

"Why,  no,  He's  sure  to  be  here  now  we  need 
Him!"  I  cried  out  in  rebellion;  but  she  had  gone. 

I  remember  afterward  I  didn't  take  my  tub; 
there  was  a  feverish  laving  of  my  face;  and  as 
I  was  finishing  my  hair  a  big  trunk  was  bumped 
264 


THE    ACTRESS 

against  my  door.  I  opened  it  suddenly  on  Mrs. 
Erskine  and  the  maid;  the  latter  vanished  down 
the  stairs.  She  had  a  "feeling"  for  the  worst, 
she  told  me  afterward.  "Moving,  Mrs.  Ers 
kine  ?"  I  said,  forcing  what  cheer  I  could  muster 
into  my  shaking  voice. 

"My  name  is  Waite — Mrs.  Waite,"  was  her 
low  response.  "I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"Come  in  and  tell  me,  if  you  want  to;  but  if 
you  don't — 

My  landlady  shut  the  door  and  leaned 
against  it,  speaking  without  a  pause:  "I  did 
run  away  and  marry  him.  My  father  was 
opposed  to  him,  and  I  was  wild  and  headstrong. 
We  went  to  France  and  had  two  almost  perfect 
years.  I  wrote  often  to  my  father  for  forgive 
ness;  it  was  terrible  knowing  him  in  England, 
and  unhappy,  while  there  was  so  much  joy  in 
my  life — that  was  my  only  grief;  but  he  never 
would  relent.  Then  my  —  my  husband  —  I 
thought  he  was,  you  know — went  into  quick 
consumption.  We  moved  South  that  the  end 
might  be  easier  and  as  beautiful  as  that  death 
can  ever  be.  Three  months  before  he  died  my 
father  came  to  me.  He  had  proof,  positive 
proof,  that  Charles  had  a  wife  in  an  asylum 
for  the  insane  in  England,  so  he  had  made  the 

18  265 


THE    ACTRESS 

journey  to  take  me  home.  I  wouldn't  go;  the 
man  was  (tying;  and  then  father  cursed  me  and 
went  back  alone.  Charles  never  knew  that  he 
had  been  to  see  me;  I  told  him  nothing.  It  was 
for  him  to  speak;  and  finally  he  did,  the  weak 
ness  of  his  nature  resolving  itself  into  strength 
as  he  approached  the  Infinite.  I  stayed  on  as 
nurse,  but  almost  immediately  upon  his  con 
fession  came  the  news  from  the  authorities  that 
she  had  gone  before  him.  We  were  married 
on  the  day  he  died.  I  did  that  because  he 
wished  it;  I  didn't  care.  Father  had  left  me, 
and  nothing  mattered.  That  is  all." 

My  friend  still  leaned  against  the  door,  im 
passive.  I  sopped  the  tears  from  off  my  face 
and  cleared  my  throat.  "Then  you  wrote  Sir 
William  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,  he  is  a  man  all 
principle.  I  couldn't  rectify  my  error  by  the 
murmurings  of  a  priest.  But  I  grew  homesick, 
homesick  for  him  and  England,  so  I  came  here 
to  be  a  little  near,  and  yet  far  enough  away 
never  to  pain  him.  We  live  in  the  North.  I 
suppose  my  secret's  ceased  to  be  one  now. 
Sarah  Wallace  certainly  will  write  to  him." 

She  stopped  speaking,  and  waited  quietly. 
Thoughts,  varied  and  fragmentary,  raced 
266 


THE    ACTRESS 

through  my  brain.  My  friend  was  wrong; 
Mrs.  Wallace  would  not  tell  him,  and  yet  why 
not  ?  Why  not  some  one  tell  him — and  soon — 
before  he  left  the  inn  ?  He  had  befriended  Mr. 
Benny  and  me,  and  the  lines  of  his  mouth  that 
he  kept  bravely  in  a  firm  line  had  relaxed  into 
those  of  a  tender  old  man  who  had  grown  to 
see  things  differently,  or,  as  he  had  put  it:  "Now 
I  know  that  there  are  other  people  who,  as 
they  look  from  out  their  soul  windows,  do  not 
see  the  same  sights,  and  yet  their  vision  is  clear, 
too.  I  have  been  a  long  time  finding  this  to 
be  so,  and  I  have  not  yet  generally  admitted  it." 

"He  had  not  yet  generally  admitted  it,"  I 
repeated. 

"What?"  queried  my  friend. 

Then  I  realized  that  she  had  been  looking  at 

o 

me  rather  longingly,  so  I  rushed  into  her  arms, 
but  only  for  a  moment.  "I  was  afraid,"  she 
said;  "yet  somehow  I  knew  you  would  stand 
by  me."  At  this  her  voice  grew  misty  and  mine 
severe.  I  assumed  the  generalship  for  once. 

"Get  out  my  pink  dress" — fastening  my  shoes 
— "I'm  going  for  a  walk." 

"Rhoda!     Where?" 

I  was  irritable.  "Oh,  just  a  walk.  Can't 
a  girl  go  for  a  walk  ?" 

267 


THE    ACTRESS 

"Not  to  Meurice,  my  dear  ?" 

I  laughed.  It  sounded  strange,  but  I  was 
glad  to  laugh  again.  "Button  me  up." 

"Shall  I  go,  too,  child?" 

"Heavens,  no!"  I  shrieked.  "I  want  to  be 
alone." 

"Oh,  beg  pardon,  dear."  My  landlady  was 
wonderfully  meek.  "Well,  the  world  wags  on 
like  my  poor  doggies'  tails.  The  beasties,  not 
half  of  them  are  combed!" 

"I'll  take  one  with  me,"  mapping  out  a  quick 
campaign.  "I  think  that  I  can  sell  it."  I 
grabbed  up  Frederica,  who  had  come  snoop 
ing  in. 

'Then  don't  take  her;   she  is  sold." 

"All  the  better;  I  just  want  a  bait — I  mean 
a  sample." 

I  was  flying  down  the  steps,  Mrs.  Erskine 
quick  after  me.  "I  don't  like  seeing  you  go 
off  alone  in  this  excited  state.  You  haven't 
had  your  breakfast — 

"Then  go  back  and  see  that  I  get  a  good 
one,"  I  snapped  from  out  the  lane.  "I'm  not 
staying  here  for  charity." 

"Rhoda  Miller!"  came  faintly  to  my  ears. 

The  Magpie  was  some  distance  off,  and  once 
more  mindful  of  the  time  I  did  not  take  a  han- 
268 


THE    ACTRESS 

som  and  Amelia  dropped  the  letter  in,  I  hailed 
a  butcher's  cart,  when  quite  out  of  view  of  star 
ing  windows,  offering  a  half-crown — a  time  note 
—to  put  me  down  somewhere  near  the  inn. 
The  butcher's  boy  did  his  work  thoroughly.  In 
spite  of  all  expostulation,  the  hams,  the  joints, 
and  I  were  halted  only  before  the  Magpie  door, 
and  there  stood  Sir  William  telling  the  land 
lady  he  had  had  a  good  night's  rest  and  a 
good  late  breakfast,  and  that  he  now  would 
walk  across — 

"Do  you  want  to  buy  a  dog  ?"  It  came  from 
the  butcher's  cart,  and  was  not  led  up  to  by 
certain  expressions  that  I  had  decided  on.  But 
things  shaped  themselves  just  so.  I  was  a  hum 
ble  instrument  and  nothing  more  that  day. 

"Bless  my  soul!"  replied  Sir  William.  •  "What 
is  it — sausage-meat  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  I  said,  descending,  while  the  land 
lady  glared:  oh,  these  mad  Americans!  "But 
I  heard  that  you  were  at  the  inn,  and  I  thought 
I'd  try  to  see  you  before  you  left.  Mrs.  Wal 
lace" — a  cough  here — "doesn't  care  for  dogs. 
It's  a  nice  girl  one." 

Sir  William  lifted  the  puppy  by  the  neck,  and 
she  licked  his  face;  a  baronet  was  nothing  to 
Frederica.  "She  is  rather  a  nice  little  thing," 
269 


THE    ACTRESS 

commented  the  pleased  nobleman.  We  had 
started  to  walk  along  toward  Mrs.  Wallace's, 
which  lay  beyond  Rosemary  Lane.  "But  I 
don't  know  what  the  stablemen  would  say  if  I 
brought  home  a  puppy." 

"There  are  grown-up  ones  also  where  I  live," 
I  pursued.  "They're  for  sale,  too.  Won't  you 
turn  off  and  see  them  ?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  an  old  one;  they  care 
only  for  the  master  they  have  left  behind.  To 
tell  the  truth,  we  haven't  had  a  dog  about 
since—  Sir  William  hesitated  and  grew  a 
little  tremulous  about  the  mouth.  "Well,  I 
had  a  daughter  once  who  was  very  fond  of 
dogs.  I  kept  hers  till  they  died,  and  then  I 
lived  on  with  my  memories." 

I  was  touched,  but  relentless.  "It's  a  lady 
who  breeds  them  at  my  house — a  real  lady- 
she  is  quite  poor,  and  it  would  be  a  great  act 
of  kindness  if  you  would  buy  one.  Do  come 
and  see  them." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say,  when  it  comes  to  charity,  I 
might.  I  suppose  this  little  one  will  do.  How 
much  ?" 

I  gazed  at  the  puppy  closely,  affecting  great 
astonishment.    "Why,  this  one's  Frederica!    She 
is  sold — how  stupid  I  should  have  brought  her 
270 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  you! — but  there  are  others."  I  seized  Sir 
William's  arm,  endeavoring  to  steer  him  tow 
ard  the  way  that  led  to  Puppy  Villa.  But  he 
was  mindful  of  his  hostess  and  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  showing  an  inclination  to  choose  the 

7  O 

other  path  which  led  on  to  the  river  houses. 

"Sold,  eh?  Ah,  well,  I'll  take  that  as  an 
omen.  I'm  too  old  a  man  to  train  a  puppy. 
Won't  you  go  on  to  Mrs.  Wallace's,  Miss 
Rhoda  ?" 

I  was  desperate;  I  dropped  my  eyes.  "I 
never  can  go  there  again,  Sir  William." 

"What's  that  you  say?" 

"It's  off." 

"You  don't  mean—"  And  Sir  William 
walked  with  me  toward  Rosemary  Lane,  his 
keen  eyes  twinkling  and  his  lips  relaxing  into 
smiles.  I  did  not  tell  him  "all,"  and  I  painted 
myself  in  the  blackest  colors,  but  he  waived 
the  defaming  of  my  faithlessness  aside.  "  Bet 
ter  for  you,  my  dear  young  lady.  That  piano, 
you  know,  all  the  night — -shockin',  shockin'. 
I'll  take  Meurice  off  to  my  place,  so  you  can 
go  out  on  the  river  and  not  be  run  down  by 
his  punt.  He  can  live  in  the  lodge  with  ten 
pianos;  not  a  soul  to  hear  him  —  old  Peter's 
deaf." 

271 


THE    ACTRESS 

We  were  in  Rosemary  Lane,  approaching  the 
little  gate  which  led  directly  to  the  kennel  yard. 
My  heart  was  beating  so  hard  I  was  surprised 
Sir  William  didn't  hear  it.  Almost  there,  and 
yet,  just  ten  feet  away  from  the  gate,  he  brought 
himself  up  with  a  start.  "Bless  my  soul,  I  am 
getting  to  be  an  old  gossip !  I've  walked  along 
without  taking  notice,  and  my  poor  friend  is 
waiting  for  me." 

I  dragged  him  five  feet  nearer,  while  the 
other  five  feet  I  walked  alone.  I  swung  open 
the  gate,  and  with  puckered  lips  framed  my 
plea,  for  my  anxious  mind  could  devise  no 
further  light  deception. 

"Go  in,"  I  breathed. 

I  don't  know  what  the  old  man  saw  in  my 
tense  face,  but  his  own  resolved  into  wonder 
ing  lines,  and  yet,  unquestioning,  he  passed 
into  the  yard.  She  was  kneeling  on  the  earth, 
puppies  tugging  at  her  apron,  and  one  squirm 
ing  little  fellow  held  to  the  ground  while  she 
vigorously  brushed  his  coat.  There  was  a 
glisten  of  tears  on  her  face,  but  her  mouth  was 
bravely  kept  in  a  firm  line,  just  as  had  been  Sir 
William's  on  the  day  that  I  first  met  him.  If 
that  father  had  halted  an  instant  in  his  walk 
I  believe  he  would  have  turned  away  again,  but 
272 


THE    ACTRESS 

on  he  went  like  a  machine,  and  when  he  was 
quite  close  to  her  she  looked  up,  rose  to  her 
feet,  and  walked  to  meet  him.  There  wasn't 
a  sound  until  within  reaching  distance,  when 
they  both  held  out  their  arms,  each  one  drop 
ping  a  puppy,  yet  never  knowing  it. 

"Janie!"  he  cried. 

"Father!"  she  sobbed  out. 

I  went  away  and  had  my  breakfast,  which 
was  luncheon,  in  the  pantry,  that  they  might 
not  find  me  for  a  long  time.  "Susan,"  I  told 
the  maid,  who  was  describing  her  feelings  while 
I  ate  my  eggs,  "if  you  ever  have  any  trouble 
just  walk  up  to  it,  and  then  it  won't  be  a  trouble 
any  more.  Don't  stop  walking  till  you  reach  it." 

"Yes,  miss,"  said  Susan,  "hit's  like  the  'ills 
and  mountings — not  so  steep  when  you  get  to 
'em." 

I  was  amazed  at  Susan's  excellent  philoso 
phy,  and  we  fraternized  in  the  pantry,  which 
of  course  I  never  should  have  done.  I  was 
obliged  to  limit  my  information,  but  I  flashed 
the  title  to  her  great  delight,  and  I  inferred 
that  everything  had  turned  out  splendidly. 
This  was  no  surprise  to  Susan,  for  she  replied 
that  she  'ad  'ad  a  feelin'  that  it  would,  and 
she  was  a  kind  mistress  wotsomever. 
273 


THE    ACTRESS 

All  this  fell  on  a  Thursday,  and  on  the  fol 
lowing  Monday  I  came  up  to  town  and  put  my 
photographs  on  the  mantel-piece  of  a  room  in 
my  club,  so  that  became  my  home.  Sir  William 
had  stayed  on  at  Puppy  Villa,  for  he  couldn't 
stand  his  daughter  out  of  his  sight.  His  things 
had  been  sent  over  from  Mrs.  Wallace's  place, 
together  with  a  large  bunch  of  forget-me-nots 
from  Mrs.  Wallace  to  Mrs.  Erskine-Waite— 
that's  our  compromise  on  names — and  a  note 
stating  that  she  and  her  nephew  were  going  to 
the  Continent,  which  was  a  great  relief  to  all 
of  us. 

My  dear  landlady  couldn't  manage  to  get 
the  dogs  crated  before  Monday.  It  was  so  like 
her  to  refuse  to  go  to  the  home  she  had  not 
seen  for  quite  ten  years  until  the  dogs  went,  too. 
Even  I  was  asked.  I  was  not  to  be  crated,  I 
was  to  be  adopted — with  papers,  if  you  please, 
most  legal.  I  had  to  invite  Bella  down  on  Sun 
day  to  hear  the  offer  from  Sir  William's  own 
lips  or  she  never  would  have  believed  it.  Of 
course,  I  hooted  at  it — a  polite  hoot;  but  I  let 
it  be  understood  that  it  would  be  as  easy  to 
make  me  into  a  tamale  as  an  Englishwoman. 
Finally  Mrs.  Erskine-Waite  abandoned  the  idea 
on  condition  that  I  should  visit  them  at  least 
274 


THE    ACTRESS 

once  a  year.  She  gave  me  the  dog  Aary  as  a 
present,  and  she  packed  my  trunks  herself. 
When  I  came  to  unlock  them  at  my  club,  the 
first  thing  greeting  me  was  the  heart-shaped 
frame  with  Aaron,  a  little  mouldy,  but  still  in 
it.  So  I  put  them  back  of  the  heart  -  shaped 
pin-cushion  that  had  gone  travelling  with  me, 
too,  because  I  had  stopped  deceiving  myself 
about  whom  I  loved. 

I  admitted  in  the  long  hours  of  the  night, 
before  I  could  grow  accustomed  to  the  motor 
'buses  screaming  along  Piccadilly,  that  I  had 
always  loved  him,  and  that  I  had  written  to 
him  because  I  loved  him,  and,  strangely  enough, 
I  loved  him  all  the  more  because  he  was  loving 
Hester  and  buying  her  farm  for  them  to  live  in. 
Sometimes,  after  saying  this  over  a  number  of 
times,  I  would  drop  off  to  sleep.  It  was  like 
deep  breathing,  for  it  swept  my  brain  of  all 
phantasies  about  myself,  and  art,  and  my  rela 
tion  to  it. 

My  work  I  still  loved,  I  still  venerated.  It 
was  my  present,  it  was  my  future,  and  I  thanked 
God  from  my  heart  that  there  was  a  place  for 
me  in  the  theatre  and  that  I  was  needed  there. 
It  did  not  seem  to  me  that  I  was  needed  greatly 
anywhere  else  during  those  first  weeks  in  Sep- 
275 


THE    ACTRESS 

tember — those  peculiarly  lifeless  days,  when  all 
London  is  like  a  closed  bedroom  that  has  been 
slept  in. 

Frederica  still  loved  me,  but — and  that  was 
all  right,  too.  Larry  had  grown  accustomed  to 
getting  on  without  me,  Mr.  Benny  had  been 
granted  a  vacation  and  sent  to  some  German 
baths,  still — I  was  needed  in  the  theatre.  There 
were  four  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  when  I 
could  drop  my  outside  griefs,  at  least.  Once  I 
would  have  cried,  "A  man  can  do  no  more!" 
but  in  September  of  that  year  I  admitted  that 
a  man  could  do  much  more  were  there  no 
hectoring  Hesters  in  the  world. 

At  first  the  club  was  a  diversion.  I  had 
been  made  a  member  immediately  upon  the 
heels  of  our  successful  opening,  leaping  in 
wonderfully  undisputed  as  an  artist.  It  was 
for  women,  but  men  were  welcome;  that  is  the 
painful  difference  between  a  man's  and  a  wom 
an's  club.  To  a  casual  observer  it  might  very 
well  have  been  taken  for  some  sort  of  lenient 
male  club  where  women  were  permitted  on  cer 
tain  days.  There  was  always  a  thin,  blue  haze 
of  cigarette  smoke  in  the  "lounge"  and  a  clink 
of  whiskey  glasses.  It  was  very  hard,  when  I 
first  came,  to  call  the  smoking-room  a  lounge 
276 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  not  just  what  it  was.  And  each  night  I 
would  ask,  "Is  the  bar  open  ?" — hotel  fashion- 
to  be  told  gently  that  "there  is  a  waiter  in  at 
tendance,  madam." 

Whatever  they  called  it,  I  had  my  stout,  and 
not  a  word  of  criticism;  indeed,  they  hardly 
seemed  to  know  that  I  was  in  existence.  That 
wonderful  ability  to  mind  their  own  affairs  pene 
trates  even  to  the  heart  of  a  British  woman's 
club.  This  quite  distressed  me  at  the  begin 
ning;  it  seemed  unfeminine.  I  yearned  for  dis 
tinguishing  marks  of  my  own  kind,  and  it  was 
not  until  I  heard  a  few  comments  from  a  circle, 
blowing  rings,  concerning  the  executive,  that  I 
was  assured  I  would  not  lose  my  womanliness 
by  staying  on. 

But  it  was  lonely.  The  great  dining-room 
was  half  lighted  and  only  a  tenth  filled  at  that 
season  of  the  year.  Here  and  there  alone  sat 
the  women,  eating,  reading  from  books  as  they 
dined,  drinking,  and  going  out.  I  seemed  to 
see  myself  in  every  one  of  them,  sitting  alone 
at  hotel  tables  all  through  my  life,  coming  in 
and  eating  and  going  out.  No  great,  easy 
Aaron  opposite  telling  the  boy  that  the  lady's 
chop  must  be  quite  underdone — no,  rare — and 
if  the  cheese  was  not  soft,  just  bring  the  coffee. 
277 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  ate  so  quickly  that  I  often  walked  down  to 
the  theatre  to  kill  the  time,  and  as  September 
fretted  itself  away  in  a  little  rash  of  heat  I 
loitered  outside  when  I  reached  the  court,  al 
though  Amelia  would  be  in  the  Strand  staring 
at  the  wheels  of  the  motor  'buses  as  though 
expecting  to  see  me  distributed  beneath  the 
Juggernaut.  It  was  not  dislike  for  my  work 
that  constrained  me  to  loiter,  it  was  the  fear  of 
it — the  fear  that  is  engendered  by  a  long  run 
and  an  unrecognized  physical  exhaustion,  a  new 
trouble  which  the  stage  door  could  not  shut  out. 
It  was  the  terror  of  losing  one's  lines  and,  having 
lost  them,  of  being  quite  unable  to  substitute 
a  word;  to  know  that  the  prompter  had  long 
since  put  away  his  book  and  that  the  actors 
on  the  scene  could  not  help.  "Since  I  have 
tripped  over  one  word,  why  not  all  of  them  ?" 
it  was  my  wont  to  cry  to  my  empanicked  self. 
"What  is  there  to  make  me  know  them  ?"  And 
then :"  Steady,  hold  on  to  yourself,  Rhoda;  let 
the  words  come,  don't  think  of  them."  This 
to  my  quaking  mentality  as  the  perspiration 
trickled  drop  by  drop  off  my  forehead,  and  the 
bride  in  the  box  commented  audibly  upon  a 
funny  American  who  felt  the  heat. 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  make  an  "out- 
278 


THE    ACTRESS 

sider"  understand  this  peculiar  form  of  stage 
fright  which  seizes  a  tired  actor  after  a  run  is 
well  advanced.  But  it  is  quite  enough  to  suffer 
it;  I  would  not  attempt  to  explain  the  phenome 
non.  Our  only  consolation  is  that  those  who 
declare  they  have  never  known  the  condition, 
during  a  first  night  or  later,  are  generally  such 
poor  actors  they  are  not  worthy  of  considera 
tion  one  way  or  the  other.  I  believe  it  cannot 
be  obviated  if  a  player  clings  to  the  readings 
that  he  decides  during  rehearsals,  or  the  first 
week  or  so,  are  the  right  ones  for  the  situation. 
If  he  changes  his  inflections  later  on,  having 
lost  the  significance  of  the  sentence  through 
much  repetition,  he  is  very  apt  to  read  falsely. 
Following  that  theory,  he  is  forced  into  a  cer 
tain  amount  of  mechanism,  and,  like  all  delicate 
machinery,  a  slight  jar  will  stop  the  wheel  from 
going  round.  It  must  be  understood  that  he  is 
none  the  less  conscientious  in  his  work.  He 
does  not  reserve  his  emotional  strength,  he  ex 
pends  it  as  freely  as  ever  upon  the  character, 
but  he  has  become  entirely  the  medium  through 
which  the  character  is  expressed.  The  result 
is  quite  as  exhaustive  as  in  the  earlier  days, 
when  he  threw  more  of  his  ego  into  his  role 
and  perhaps  less  of  the  character. 
279 


THE    ACTRESS 

One  night  Bruce  stumbled  in  his  lines;  he 
corrected  himself  and  went  on,  but  fear  was 
in  his  voice.  Then  he  came  to  a  word  that  he 
forgot,  and  he  made  a  sound  like  it  but  that 
was  no  word  at  all— "  esspassum,"  I  think  he 
said,  for  experience.  This  often  happens,  and 
if  the  player  keeps  on,  the  audience  thinks  it 
has  not  quite  caught  what  was  said.  Such 
mistakes  are  humorous  for  the  other  actors  on 
the  scene,  except  when  there  is  a  note  of  terror 
in  the  player's  voice.  Then  they  do  not  laugh, 
for  they,  too,  are  growing  panicky.  Fear 
breeds  fear,  line  after  line  is  delivered  haltingly, 
and  sometimes  the  stage-manager  gets  out  the 
script,  standing  in  the  first  entrance,  that  the 
actors  may  see  him  and  recover  their  confidence. 

On  the  night  Bruce  said  "  esspassum  "  we  as 
sured  him,  when  the  scene  was  over,  that  the 
lapse  wasn't  noticed,  laughing  then — with  him. 
"And  what  do  you  suppose  started  it  ?"  he  con 
fided.  "I've  been  in  the  habit  of  looking  up 
at  the  brass  balcony  rail  on  that  line  and  catch 
ing  a  glint  of  metal  from  the  ray  of  some  lamp; 
to-night  the  light  must  have  been  out,  for  there 
was  no  reflection — nothing  to  catch  my  eye. 
It  made  me  falter,  and  you  know  the  rest." 
We  waggled  understanding  heads. 
280 


THE    ACTRESS 

As  time  dragged  on  through  September,  and 
once  each  day  little  chills  ran  over  me,  followed 
by  a  great  prostration  of  heat,  and  my  head 
ached,  growing  so  heavy  that  I  was  not  able  to 
think  quickly,  I  began  to  notice  the  stage-man 
ager  in  the  first  entrance  during  my  scenes  with 
the  prompt-book  in  his  hand.  This  occurred 
first  at  a  matinee  when  a  lady  clattered  her 
teacup  during  my  scene  with  Larry.  The  words 
quite  left  me;  I  was  speechless;  I  felt  that  not 
only  then,  but  never,  would  I  be  able  to  frame 
another  sentence.  With  sick  eyes  I  turned  to 
him  for  help,  and  he  replied,  with  his  blue  ones 
full  of  pity  as  he  whispered  back:  "I  can't,  old 
girl." 

Somehow  we  got  through,  as  we  always  do. 
I  think  he  cut  out  my  speech,  going  on  with  his 
response  to  it,  which  made  no  sense  at  all,  but 
mattered  little  to  us — nor  to  the  lady  who 
clattered  her  teacup.  Afterward  he  told  me 
of  a  number  of  things  he  could  have  done,  and 
I  was  just  as  grateful.  But  it  is  curious  how 
long  we  can  play  a  scene  with  an  actor  yet 
never  learn  his  lines,  whereas  a  child  in  the 
company  will  know  the  whole  play  before  the 
season  is  over. 

Perhaps  I  was  most  frightened  at  myself 
»<>  281 


THE    ACTRESS 

when  I  found  that  those  around  me  were  able, 
as  I  continued  to  blunder,  to  throw  me  my 
lines.  I  knew  then  that  they  must  have  com 
mitted  my  speeches,  in  case  of  an  emergency, 
although  they  stoutly  denied  this  when  charged 
with  it  by  me.  So  I  could  only  squeeze  their 
hands  gratefully  when  the  scene  was  over  and 
I  would  go  to  the  wings,  Amelia  standing  anx 
iously  by,  a  coat  in  one  hand,  in  case  I  was  chilly, 
and  a  fan  in  the  other,  should  I  be  burning  up. 

The  English  stage  -  manager  advised  a  doc 
tor,  at  which  I  laughed,  and  suggested  a  vaca 
tion,  which  I  pronounced  ridiculous.  "Mr. 
Benny  is  away  now,"  I  replied,  "and  it  would 
weaken  the  cast."  He  kindly  admitted  that 
this  was  so.  I  say  "kindly,"  for  I  would  have 
been  heartbroken  had  I  found  they  did  not  need 
me  even  in  the  theatre. 

"I  feel  better  now  about  my  lines,"  I  said 
to  him  one  night,  as  September  was  nearing 
its  end.  I  was  on  the  other  side  of  my  little 
curtained  wash-place  calling  to  him,  for  I  had 
had  a  night  of  horror — although  I  was  trying 
not  to  let  him  know  it — and  Amelia  was  spong 
ing  off  my  sweating  body  with  alcohol.  "What 
alarms  me  now  is,  I  don't  know  when  to  sit 
down  and  when  to  get  up.  Now,  with  all  of 
282 


THE   ACTRESS 

them  so  kind,  and  you  in  the  first  entrance,  I 
know  I  can  get  through  my  words.  If  I  pay 
strict  attention  to  what  the  others  say  I  will 
certainly  find  some  sequence  of  thought,  but 
what  is  there  to  tell  me  that  on  this  line  or  on 
that  line  I  sit  down  or  pour  a  drink  or  start  a 
song  ?  Of  course  I  knew  once,  but  with  this 
queer  head  of  mine  I  forget,  and  if  I  begin  to 
speak  while  I  am  standing,  where  I  have  been 
sitting  heretofore,  I  feel  the  difference  and  that 
makes  me  stumble  in  my  lines  again." 

''Well,  if  you  won't  consult  a  doctor  and 
won't  take  a  holiday — it's  pure  brain-fag,  I've 
seen  it  before — come  to  the  theatre  in  the  after 
noon  now  and  then,  and  we'll  go  over  the  scenes 
and  try  to  associate  some  new  idea  relative  to 
the  business." 

I  always  walked  back  to  the  club  after  these 
rehearsals,  telling  myself  that  the  line  "thar's 
rain  in  the  air"  was  as  good  a  reason  for  ris 
ing  from  a  log  as  "there'll  be  doin's  to-night," 
and  other  new  relations  of  dialogue  and  busi 
ness.  As  a  rule,  the  meaning  of  a  line  assists 
the  movement  in  a  play,  but  if  one  is  on  the 
stage  and  yet  not  concerned  in  the  scene,  the 
value  of  the  words  spoken  does  not  always  help 
the  action. 

283 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  was  deeply  touched  in  those  days  by  the 
thoughtfulness  of  those  about  me;  the  Eng 
lish  stage  -  manager  stood  for  everything  that 
was  generous,  and  I  found  myself  growing 
most  kindly.  It  is  a  truth  that  the  tempera 
mental  being  is  more  susceptible  to  the  griefs 
of  others  when  he  himself  is  bruised  and  beat 
en.  The  familiar  poor  of  the  London  streets 
who  had  always  distressed  me  had  grown, 
as  a  result  of  my  own  misery,  to  be  a  charge  I 
must  assume  myself.  I  hope  the  other  workers 
who  go  to  and  fro  over  the  same  path  feel  as  I 
did  about  these  parishioners.  I  am  quite  sure 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire  must  be  a  regular  con 
tributor  to  the  neat  little  blind  fellow  who  stands 
in  the  shadow  of  his  great  wall  month  in  and 
month  out.  He  was  also  on  my  route,  and  I 
once  asked  him,  as  I  paid  my  tribute,  if  he  grew 
to  recognize  his  customers.  "Yes,  madam," 
he  replied,  "I  even  know  their  laughs."  That 
was  all  he  had,  all  the  old  man  had,  just  other 
people's  laughs,  and  the  lovely  foliage  of  Green 
Park  not  a  hundred  feet  away! 

I  saw  a  workman  who  had  been  discharged 

from    a    closed    arsenal    call   out  his    matches 

cheerily  "two  for  a  penny"  and  make  change 

in  the  spring  of  that  year — saw  him  dwindle 

284 


THE    ACTRESS 

with  the  waning  summer  to  a  gaunt,  stooped 
wreck  of  a  man  whose  white  cheeks  spoke  of 
under- nourishment,  and  whose  voice  changed 
to  a  beggar's  whine,  offering  no  bargains,  and 
keeping  what  was  offered  as  he  paid  back  Fate 
in  the  coin  Fate  paid  him. 

I  saw  what  was  quite  as  terrible — a  boy  who 
never  lost  hope.  If  the  man  who  had  passed 
did  not  buy,  nor  the  man  who  was  passing, 
still  he  who  is  coming  may  yet  buy;  and  if  to 
day  is  not  lucky,  yet  to  -  morrow  may  be,  and 
surely  it  is  luck  when  the  rain  holds  off, 
madam. 

Then  there  are  the  women  with  the  babies, 
those  little  white  babies  who  sleep  and  sleep 
and  sleep,  the  little  drugged,  rented  babies.  It 
must  be  difficult  to  sell  matches  all  day  long; 
it  must  be  difficult  to  stand  through  days  of 
drizzle  and  sell  matches;  but  what  must  it  be 
to  hold  the  babies,  even  a  thin,  rented  baby,  for 
twelve  hours  and  sell  matches  ?  What  must  be 
the  weight  of  those  drugged  babies  ?  I  gave 
those  women  pennies,  even  though  they  might 
be  quickly  turned  to  gin — and  the  drugs  fed  to 
the  children. 

There  was  one  girl  whom  I  got  to  know 
with  a  baby  all  her  own.  She  nourished  it,  and 
285 


THE    ACTRESS 

the  baby  was  not  drugged,  for  though  it  never 
laughed  it  often  cried.  She  stood  at  Charing 
Cross.  I  had  seen  her  there  at  noon  and  I  had 
seen  her  there  at  midnight.  She  was  a  pretty 
girl  in  the  spring  when  the  baby  was  quite  new, 
but  in  September  she  was  not  so  pretty,  al 
though  the  baby  had  not  changed  so  much — it 
was  but  a  little  larger. 

I  saw  her  on  the  last  day  of  the  month  as  I 
was  walking  home  from  my  rehearsal.  I  had 
grown  very  chilly  in  the  theatre,  and  the  rush 
of  heat  that  always  followed  was  making  my 
head  swim  by  the  time  I  reached  Charing  Cross. 
She  was  shifting  the  baby  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  a  little  awkwardly,  as  the  matches  were 
in  one  hand;  but  as  she  huddled  the  child  up  in 
the  hollow  of  her  arm  I  felt  the  light  weight  of 
its  body,  just  as  I  knew  how  the  puppy  felt  when 
Frederica  was  hugging  it  up  to  her.  Only  it 
was  a  much  more  wonderful  sensation,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  just  then  the  cruelest  revelation 
of  all  the  many  revelations  of  that  long  sum 
mer.  I  didn't  feel  so  sorry  for  the  match-girl 
that  day  with  her  own  baby  up  against  her 
breast.  I  gave  her  some  money  and  shook  off 
her  thanks;  but  as  I  turned  to  go  I  hesitated 
before  plunging  into  the  maelstrom,  and  just 
286 


THE    ACTRESS 

then  a  hansom  grazed  the  curb.  It  passed  so 
close  that  it  swept  my  gown,  and  I  drew  back, 
throwing  up  my  head  in  angry  protest — and  in 
the  hansom  were  Aaron  Adams  and  my  friend 
Hester! 

Instinctively  I  put  my  hand  before  my  eyes, 
as  though  to  brush  away  any  strange  hal 
lucination  that  might  have  come  to  my  disor 
dered  brain  when  the  woman  lifted  up  her 
child,  and  in  that  instant  the  driver  had  squeezed 
his  cab  through  a  crevice  and  was  driving  toward 
Cockspur  Street.  I  only  heard  the  sound  of  a 
deep,  happy  laugh  which  I  knew  well.  It  was 
no  figment  of  my  brain,  and  recklessly,  with  no 
fixed  idea,  I  plunged  after  them.  A  bobby 
caught  me  by  the  arm  while  a  motor  'bus 
screeched  past,  and  by  the  time  I  had  reached 
the  lions  of  Trafalgar  Square  there  were  so 
many  hansoms  ahead  of  me  that  it  was  impos 
sible  to  know  which  one  contained  the  couple. 

On,  on  I  ran,  down  the  slope  by  the  fountains, 
thinking  to  avoid  the  crowd  upon  the  pavement 
— then  around  the  fountains,  with  some  intention 
of  cutting  into  Pall  Mall  in  case  they  might  be 
going  to  the  Carlton — up  the  steps,  realizing  this 
had  not  been  wise,  but  too  late  now  to  remedy- 
on  and  still  on,  with  men  and  women  stopping 
287 


THE    ACTRESS 

to  crane  their  necks,  until  finally  I  reached  the 
hostelry  only  to  find  the  porters  standing  idly 
by  and  no  hansom  at  the  door.  Then  I  drove 
back  to  the  club,  as  unseeing  as  the  blind  man 
who  stands  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  of  Devon 
shire  House,  and,  like  him,  with  the  sound  in  my 
ears  of  a  deep,  happy  laugh. 

It  was  five  when  I  left  the  theatre.  At  seven 
the  maid  brought  hot  water  to  my  room  and 
asked  if  she  could  dress  me.  I  had  been  sitting 
at  the  window  staring  at  the  trees  out  in  the 
park,  but  I  turned  to  her  vacantly. 

"Dress  me?     For  what?" 

"For  going  to  the  play,  ma'am." 

With  that  a  wave  of  nausea  swept  over  me,  a 
deep  disgust,  a  wild  resentment  which  shook 
my  body,  and,  tracing  the  cause  of  these  sensa 
tions,  a  new  horror  engulfed  me  wholly,  for  my 
work,  my  work,  at  last,  was  hateful  to  me! 


XII 

A  FRIEND  once  told  me  that  she  had  loved 
/*  a  man — a  good  man,  although  he  was  of 
common  clay  and  used  bad  English — until  a  girl 
poked  fun  at  him;  then  he  disgusted  her.  Only 
always  afterward  she  bore  a  fierce  resentment 
toward  this  girl  who  had  made  plain,  through 
a  few  light  words  of  scorn,  the  weakness  in 
that  good  man's  nature. 

Love  was  to  me  that  night  at  seven  what  the 
ridiculing  girl  had  been  to  my  girl  friend.  And 
how  I  hated  it,  even  while  it  held  me,  this 
power  called  love!  It  had  spoiled  me  for  my 
friends  and  for  their  homes;  it  prevented  me 
from  forming  new  acquaintances,  because  it 
kept  me  unreceptive.  Nature  in  all  her  beauty, 
to  which  it  was  allied,  dulled  in  comparison 
with  it.  The  breath  of  the  soft  wind,  the  splash 
ing  of  the  rain,  the  long,  level  sun-rays  on  wet 
grass,  the  night  lights  of  the  city,  the  church 
spires  rising  from  the  fog  —  all  these  delights 
of  old  but  stabbed  me  with  their  sharp  appeal 
289 


THE    ACTRESS 

as  I  moved  on  alone,  thinking  of  hours  when  I 
had  not  been  alone. 

Step  by  step — fighting — I  had  yielded  to  this 
strange,  encroaching  force  a  foothold  on  my 
happiness,  and  when  all  of  it  was  gone  I  had 
not  cried  out,  for  I  still  had  my  work.  Weak 
as  I  was  in  those  days,  sweating  with  terror  as 
I  played  night  after  night,  still  the  very  suffer 
ing  was  my  life's  portion  and  I  clung  to  it.  It 
was  so  mighty,  on  so  high  a  peak,  this  play-act 
ing,  I  had  felt  that  the  relentless  tide  of  a  great 
passion  for  a  man  who  did  not  care  for  me 
never  could  crawl  up  to  it.  Who  said  "Love 
will  find  a  way" — and  is  the  sentiment  a  pleas 
ant  one  ?  Well,  Love  had  found  a  way  to  reach 
my  work  and  undermine  it  as  water  eats  away 
a  cliff;  it  had  grown  poor  and  mean  to  me,  and 
shrivelled  into  significance,  like  a  thing  rid 
iculed. 

And  what  had  Love  given  me  in  fair  exchange  ? 
Just  this:  the  understanding  of  the  deep  sensa 
tion  of  a  mother  when  she  heaps  her  baby  up 
against  her  breast. 

O 

Such  wisdom  I  should  once  have  welcomed. 

No  experience  is  wasted  in  our  lives,  for  we  can 

put  it  in  the  part  we  play.     It  does  not  matter 

whether  we   are   there   to   make   the   audience 

290 


THE    ACTRESS 

laugh  or  cry — it  is  the  breadth  we  gain  with 
the  knowledge  of  the  emotion  that  we  need 
both  in  comedy  and  tragedy.  But  I  was  bereft 
of  even  this  small  comfort.  I  could  not  make 
use  of  my  grief,  for  I  had  turned  against  my 
art,  and  the  vista  of  long,  weary  years  rose  up 
before  me  when,  like  those  strollers  I  had  first 
met  in  touring  companies,  I  should  be  compelled 
to  wrest  a  living  from  the  "grind"  of  acting. 

A  voice  broke  in  upon  my  thoughts — a  timid 
voice.  "Beg  pardon,  madam,  but  it's  past  the 
half-hour,  madam;  and  the  gown  and  the  din 
ner  and  the  play,  madam  ?" 

I  looked  at  the  little  maid.  She  must  have 
gone  out  and  come  in  again.  She  must  have 
knocked  and  I  must  have  answered  her.  Let 
those  who  do  not  understand  how  actors  can 
speak  lines  without  knowledge  of  their  meaning 
ask  themselves  how  often  they  have  replied  to 
the  routine  questions  of  the  day  without  con 
sciousness  of  the  fact.  Servants  in  England 
have  a  lasting  patience;  there  was  time  for  more 
reflection  before  I  answered  her:  "Wait,  Mary, 
wait  a  little."  And  she  stood  waiting  quietly. 

With  my  hot  head  against  the  cool  stone  of 
the  balcony  my  mutinous  thoughts  ran  on.  I 
had  been  known  on  the  stage  as  an  actress  who 
291 


THE    ACTRESS 

was  conscientious  as  well  as  capable.  That 
sometimes  is  an  epithet  applied  to  cover  gently 
greater  deficiencies,  but  I  had  comforted  my 
self  with  the  thought  that  the  real  workers  in 
the  arts  were  painstaking  also.  That  night  at 
half-past  seven  I  rebelled  against  the  order  of 
my  life  when  my  soul  was  so  perturbed.  I 
understood,  at  last,  the  satisfaction  of  the  young 
woman  in  a  company  I  was  once  with  when 
she  wired  to  the  theatre  that  she  was  ill,  and  in 
place  of  the  performance  attended  a  gay  dinner. 
I  once  knew  an  actress  who  tore  up  her  hat, 
her  newest  hat,  because  her  photographs  were 
failures.  She  ever  afterward  maintained  that  it 
had  been  a  great  relief,  this  destroying  of  her 
head-gear.  Well,  I  would  not  tear  up  my  hat 
or  go  to  a  gay  dinner,  but  I  would  not  play 
that  night.  I  would  abandon  myself  wholly  to 
my  misery. 

"I  am  not  going  to  the  theatre,"  I  told  the 
waiting  maid. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  which  had  its  comic 
side. 

The  wind  was  right  for  it,  and  above  the 

noise   of  Piccadilly   that  old   enemy   of  mine, 

Big  Ben,  chanted  the  three-quarters.     I  drew 

in  my  breath  quickly.     This  was  the  hour  I 

292 


THE    ACTRESS 

should  be  starting,  or,  if  very  late,  hurrying 
through  the  dinner  with  a  "taxy"  beating  at  the 
door.  To-night  I  shifted  my  position  leisurely 
and  looked  down  into  the  street.  Drivers  were 
miraculously  steering  in  and  out  through  the 
traffic,  messengers  were  rushing  to  and  fro.  Men 
were  sauntering  to  appointments  they  were  keep 
ing,  women  flying  to  meet  theirs.  It  might  be  no 
tryst  more  serious  than  the  solemn  British  din 
ner,  but  the  sight  would  no  doubt  have  afforded 
Admiral  Nelson  great  satisfaction  in  the  as 
surance  that  all  England  as  a  unit  was  intent 
upon  her  duty. 

All  but  me.  How  quickly  my  hot  forehead 
warmed  the  stone !  I  moved  to  the  other  side,  ex 
amining  my  watch  mechanically.  What  would 
they  say  down  at  the  theatre  ?  Would  they  tel 
ephone  ?  and,  if  they  did,  what  would  I  say  to 
them  ?  Something  flippant,  I  decided :  that  the 
evening  was  so  pleasant  or  the  crowd  in  Picca 
dilly  so  engrossing  I  really  couldn't  leave.  By 
that  time  it  would  be  too  late  to  send  and  fetch 
me,  so  the  understudy  would  go  on.  Then  all 
through  the  evening,  as  I  stood  by  the  window 
looking  down,  the  dressers  would  be  gathering 
in  the  hallway  off  the  rooms,  and  would  talk  of 
me,  while  the  players  would  be  forming  and  re- 
293 


THE    ACTRESS 

forming  little  knots  in  the  wings,  and  they  would 
be  passionately  sorry,  one  demanding  of  the 
other  a  brain  specialist,  as  though  each  kept  a 
specimen  in  his  pocket.  But  before  the  play 
was  finished  some  one — some  one — would  ask  if 
any  one  had  known  whether  she — not  steadily, 
of  course — but  just  a  drop — and  the  first  glass 
leads  to  more — you  know  just  how  it  is — and 
she  had  been  unhappy  all  the  summer — the 
poor  girl! 

Yet  following  on  these  impious  thoughts  the 
hot  tears,  hotter  than  my  face,  poured  down 
over  my  cheeks,  and  I  was  filled  with  shame 
that  I  could  attribute  such  lack  of  faith  to  my 
own  people.  Still  I  leaned  upon  the  balcony 
in  mutiny,  and  tried  to  quiet  a  little  voice  within 
me — a  feeble  little  voice,  of  such  small  propor 
tions  that  one  wonders  how  it  has  so  absolutely 
ruled  us  womenkind. 

I  looked  at  my  watch  again  unseeingly.  What 
a  thing  it  is — this  instinct  that  sends  us  to  the 
theatre!  Drunken  men  feel  their  way  there 
when  the  hour  comes,  women  in  agonies  of 
pain  go  unprotestingly  when  the  hour  comes, 
death-beds  are  left  without  a  plea  for  pardon, 
and  how  dared  I  stay  away  ?  What  would  they 
do  without  me  ?  The  understudy — was  she 
294 


THE    ACTRESS 

well  prepared,  and  did  she  know  that  there  had 
been  some  recent  changes  in  the  business  ? — 
would  Bella  tell  her  that  the  song  was  out  ? — 
should  I  not  'phone  this  to  her  ? — what  would 
the  audience  think,  and  how  long  would  they 
hold  the  curtain  for  me  ? — who  would  announce 
that  I  was  "ill"  ? — and  would  the  office  send  the 
item  to  the  papers  ? — and  if  they  did,  would 
Aaron  see  it  in  the  morning  as  he  sat  at  break 
fast  with  her  ? — and  would  they  care,  he  and 
his  wife,  or  would  they  laugh  ?  and — oh,  Aaron, 
you  have  driven  me  to  this!  You  have  made 
me  scorn  my  work  and  break  my  trust  and 
lose  my  prestige,  but  I  said  I  wouldn't  go,  and 
I  won't  go,  and — what  is  that  hour  Big  Ben  is 
striking  ?  Eight — and  a  quarter! — oh,  God  help 
me,  I  shall  never  make  it! — oh,  God,  let  me 
make  it!  send  me  a  taximeter,  God!  And  the 
discipline  of  years  enveloped  me  and  drove  me 
to  my  work. 

They  were  all  on  the  pavement  when  I  drew 
up — Amelia  and  the  manager  and  stage-director; 
and  down  in  my  rooms,  while  the  orchestra  was 
starting  on  a  second  overture,  my  shaking  un 
derstudy  was  daubing  her  face  with  my  grease 
paint.  She  looked  up,  growing  ten  years  young 
er  at  the  sight  of  me,  for  whatever  the  secret 
295 


longing  of  an  aspirant  to  show  them  just  how 
well  she  can  get  through,  when  the  moment 
comes  she  prays  devoutly  for  deliverance. 

"Plenty  of  time,"  called  the  stage-manager 
through  the  thin  partition,  lying  soothingly; 
"you're  not  to  fret."  He  had  been  quite  white 
out  on  the  pavement. 

"I'll  apologize,  please,  later,"  my  voice  pant 
ed  back.  "It's  a  long  story." 

"Don't  talk,  miss,"   said  Amelia,  sternly. 

I  smiled  at  her  wearily,  my  hands  busied  with 
the  jars  and  pencils.  "Amelia,  my  work  isn't 
the  big  thing  I  thought  it  was.  I've  found 
something  bigger,  but  I've  found  it  out  too 
late,  and  my  heart's  broken." 

"There  is  things  bigger,"  affirmed  Amelia, 
pinning  bows  to  my  head. 

"Well,  why  didn't  some  one  tell  me  long 
ago  ?"  I  querulously  answered. 

"Didn't  no  one  ?"  asked  the  wonderful 
Amelia. 

I  went  up  in  my  ragged  finery,  pigeon-toed, 
bent,  a  "Zany  decked  for  laughter."  I  was 
greeted  with  a  sweep  of  hand-clapping — it  was 
for  me,  the  actress;  then  with  a  roar  of  mirth 
as  the  fine  points  of  my  apparel  reached  them. 
"A  good  house,"  whispered  Larry,  as  I  stood 
296 


THE    ACTRESS 

waiting  for  the  one  second  that  comes  in  every 
laugh  when  it  is  easiest  to  quiet  down  an  audi 
ence  before  they  are  quite  through. 

"Yes,"  I  whispered  back,  twisting  slightly  to 
see  them  better.  Only  I  didn't  see  them,  or 
only  two  of  them — only  one  of  them,  perhaps; 
for,  lifting  my  head,  my  burning  eyes  looked 
into  the  quiet  gaze  of  Aaron. 

He  was  with  Hester  in  the  stage-box,  just  as 
the  other  bridal  couples  had  been  who  had 
amused  us  all  through  the  summer.  They,  too, 
were  at  the  back,  and  as  my  eyes  rested  on 
them  she  half  raised  a  nervously  ungloved  hand 
in  greeting;  but  I  saw  Aaron  cover  it  with  his 
own  and  bring  it  down,  just  as  had  the  other 
bridal  couples.  She  was  smiling  brilliantly, 
surely;  but  I  could  not  see  whether  Aaron's 
face,  too,  was  aglow  with  happiness,  or,  rather, 
I  did  not  look  for  it.  Wonderfully  enough  it  was 
sufficient  for  me  to  know  that  he  was  there,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  footlights,  across  the  chasm 
that  separates  the  real  world  from  the  make- 
believe. 

When  he  had  passed  me  in  the  cab  that  after 
noon  it  had  been  as  unreal  to  my  tired  brain  as 
the  quick  winking  of  a  biograph.  In  the  silence 
that  had  followed  Hester's  last  letter — for  I  had 

ao  297 


THE    ACTRESS 

made  no  reply  to  the  one  that  brought  news  of 
the  farm,  and  she  had  not  written  afterward— 
his  very  features  had  grown  vague  in  my  mind, 
their  half  outlines  rising  up  to  torture  me,  until 
I  felt  sometimes  that  all  my  love  was  lavished 
on  a  myth.  But  now  he  was  opposite  me  once 
more.  Wider  than  a  restaurant  table's  width 
was  the  distance  between  him  and  me;  but 
he  was  there — broad-shouldered,  restful,  kind, 
with  shrewd,  level  eyes  looking  quietly  into 
mine. 

And  my  resentment  rolled  away.  It  was  just 
enough  for  me  to  have  him  there.  Only — I  had 
ceased  to  be  amazed  at  the  "onlys"  in  my  life — 
only  once  upon  a  time  had  Aaron  been  in  front, 
with  what  zest  I  should  have  thrown  myself  into 
my  part,  added  laugh  to  laugh  by  new  antics, 
made  myself  doubly  ridiculous  that  he  might  hear 
the  audience  applaud  me.  My  very  hideous- 
ness  would  have  been  a  source  of  triumph  to 
me,  a  triumph  of  make-up,  which  he  could  not 
deny,  and  afterward  at  supper,  in  my  prettiest 
gown,  I  should  have  slyly  fished  for  some  ad 
mission  that  he  was  proud  of  me. 

Now,  as  I  stood  before  him  in  my  ugliness  and 
saw  Hester  sitting  by  his  side  fresh  and  lovely,  a 
little  rivulet  of  shame  came  creeping  up  from  my 
298 


THE    ACTRESS 

toes,  for  I  wanted  to  be  pretty;  and  as  the  scene 
went  on  and  the  house  rocked  if  I  turned  my 
back,  showing  a  bustle,  I  set  my  teeth;  when 
I  leaped  across  a  brook  displaying  undarned 
stockings  hot  tears  came  rushing  to  my  eyes; 
and  when  I  was  recalled,  that  the  audience 
might  show  their  deep  appreciation  of  a  scene 
in  which  I  had  been  the  unsuspecting  butt  for 
the  whole  cast,  I  could  not  lift  my  head  to  bow 
to  them.  The  soul  of  the  artist  had  left  me, 
for  I  wanted  to  be  lovely  and  I  wanted  to  be 
loved.  I  envied  Bella  passionately;  I  envied 
Frederica,  with  not  a  scene  to  play;  I  envied 
all  those  dance-hall  girls,  who  fiercely  envied 
me. 

Throughout  the  evening  I  kept  my  eyes 
averted  from  the  box,  yet  Aaron's  presence  filled 
the  theatre;  always  before  me,  whichever  way  I 
looked,  was  the  outline  of  the  broad,  helpful 
shoulders,  and  the  strong,  warm  hands  covering 
Hester's.  Twice  when  I  faltered  in  my  lines 
I  turned  instinctively  to  him  for  help,  as  though 
he  would  surely  straighten  out  the  tangled  wires 
in  my  head.  Even  in  my  panic,  while  the 
words  were  being  whispered  to  me  by  the  com 
pany,  I  smiled  to  myself  to  think  that  I  should 
look  to  Aaron  to  help  me  play  the  acting  game. 
299 


THE    ACTRESS 

They  were  very  gentle  with  me  that  night, 
were  my  people.  The  manager  put  his  hand 
across  my  mouth  when  I  started  to  explain,  and 
said:  "To-morrow."  Larry  sent  out  for  the 
best  supper  the  Savoy  grill  could  furnish  when 
he  heard  I  had  not  eaten.  "There  are  clams, 
American  ones,  old  girl,"  he  urged,  and  I  swal 
lowed  some  for  his  sake — and  Aaron's — remem 
bering  the  night  I  had  eaten  them  when  we 
missed  "The  Rosary,"  and  I  had  sworn  to  seize 
my  opportunity  and  go  away. 

I  heard  the  finish  of  a  speech  of  Bruce's  as 
I  entered  my  dressing-room  before  the  last  act 
was  called — "the  end  of  her  rope"  were  his 
words.  But  none  of  them  knew,  except  Fred- 
erica,  just  what  the  end  of  that  rope  was,  or 
who  were  in  the  box,  and  how  much  it  meant 
to  me.  She  had  espied  the  two,  and  came  to 
me  in  a  rush  as  I  was  preparing  to  go  up  for 
the  last  act. 

"I  don't  care!"  she  broke  in,  clamorously. 
"Rhoda,  you  show  them  just  how  lovely  you 
can  be.  Take  those  towels  from  your  waist, 
put  on  some  rouge,  let  me  do  up  your  hair, 
and  you  come  on  a  rearing,  tearing  beau 
ty."  Frederica  gulped  with  sobs  and  started  to 
pull  off  my  tawdry  finery. 
300 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  fought  her  feebly  with  my  hands.  "No, 
Freddy,  no.  I've  got  to  see  it  to  a  finish.  I 
can't  spoil  the  play." 

"Oh,  let  the  old  play  go  to  smash.  You  fix 
up,  darling.  How  dare  they  come  to  stare  at 
you!  I'd  like  to  slap  her." 

Amelia  by  this  time  was  defending  me  from 
further  onslaught.  "It's  all  right,  Frederica," 
I  gasped  back.  "It's  better  this  way:  I'm 
happier  this  way,  happier  just  to  have  him  here. 
But  Bruce  is  right,  I've  reached  the  end.  I'll 
have  to  give  up  soon." 

"Well,  let  them  know  that  you're  a  human 
being  somehow,  Rhoda;  have  a  pretend,  dear; 
I  won't  have  you  laughed  at  by  that  big  crowd 
of  men  and  women  when  you're  such  a  beauty 
underneath." 

"Have  a  pretend!'"  I  echoed. 

"Yes.  Darn  art!  Read  your  lines  somehow, 
so  as  to  show  them  that  you  are  back  of  it." 

For  an  instant  I  was  fascinated.  Now  that  I 
look  calmly  at  the  situation,  I  know  that  I  never 
was  so  strongly  of  my  own  fraternity  as  at  the 
moment  when  a  "make-believe"  tempted  me 
to  gain  my  point.  I  kept  on  acting  even  while 
I  scoffed  at  it.  But  Aaron  rose  before  me,  and 
his  amused  contempt  for  all  of  us  who  lived  by 
301 


THE    ACTRESS 

day  and  night  in  our  play-acting.  So  I  put 
this  means  of  gaining  sympathy  out  of  my  life 
— forever. 

"Last  act,  all  up!"  shrilled  the  call-boy,  and 
Frederica,  still  extravagantly  incoherent,  yet 
knowing  she  had  lost,  assisted  me  up-stairs. 

Nothing  causes  us  to  break  more  quickly 
than  submitting  to  the  calamity.  I  played  that 
act  as  though  I  were  clinging  feebly  to  a  rope, 
the  ends  fraying  in  my  grasp.  It  came  to  me 
that  I  was  a  shipwrecked  sailor  holding  to  a 
life-line;  that  each  word  I  spoke  was  a  breaker 
to  be  breasted;  and  that  the  final  exit  was  dry 
land.  All  about  me  was  the  surging  of  great 
waters,  trying  to  suck  me  down.  These  noises 
in  my  ears  were  physical  and  not  imaginary,  but 
it  was  my  spent  brain  that  played  a  part  within 
a  part. 

A  little  farther  on — a  little  nearer  shore — I 
found  my  voice  so  distant  from  my  body  that 
I  was  doubtful  whether  I  could  be  the  one  who 
spoke  the  lines.  Still  the  audience  laughed, 
and  I  likened  them  to  the  great  crowd  on  the 
beach  shouting  encouragement,  for  I  knew  that 
the  scene  was  playing  properly  while  they 
laughed,  and  on  I  struggled.  Then  the  waters 
became  turbulent,  a  great  rush  of  nausea  swept 
302 


THE    ACTRESS 

over  me,  and  another,  and  another.  I  won 
dered,  half  amused,  that  one  could  be  so  sea 
sick  at  such  a  time  of  peril.  Still  was  heard  the 
laughter  of  the  house,  and  I  did  not  lose  heart 
that  I  should  make  my  exit.  After  this  my 
brain  cleared  of  these  fantasies,  for  the  nausea 
and  the  surging  of  waters  left  me;  but  a  new 
terror  grimly  took  their  place,  for  I  was  grow 
ing  blind.  The  audience  receded  first,  then  the 
footlights,  then  the  actors;  yet  still  I  spoke  the 
lines  and  heard  the  laughter.  Sightless,  I  turned 
in  the  direction  of  the  door,  lifting  up  my  hands 
to  feel  my  way.  A  voice — in  the  wings,  I  think — 
exclaimed,  "  She's  ill,"  and  at  that  my  knees  gave 
way,  and,  dog  fashion,  I  came  to  the  floor.  There 
was  a  quick  laugh  from  the  house — I  heard  it 
plainly;  then  a  silence,  as  though  they  saw,  at 
last,  that  things  were  wrong.  I  had  one  in 
stinct  left:  to  crawl  away,  some  way;  but  the 
thought  was  quicker  than  the  action,  for  I 
heard  the  sound  of  feet  beside  me,  and  as  a 
strong  hand  touched  my  shoulder  I  crumpled 
into  a  ball  upon  the  stage.  "Why,  I  am  faint 
ing!"  passed  through  my  mind. 
Then  perfect  quiet. 


XIII 

CXTRACT  from  the  London  Daily  Comet, 
1— '  October  ist: 

"Miss  Rhoda  Miller,  who,  as  Sarah  Fall-in-the- 
Mud,the  half-breed  Indian,  keeps  the  audience  of  the 
Prince's  Theatre  in  gales  of  laughter  nightly,  fell  in  a 
faint  last  evening  as  she  was  about  to  make  her  final 
exit.  Her  heroic  efforts  to  finish  her  scene  provoked  the 
greatest  sympathy  from  the  house,  and  a  countryman 
of  hers,  who  occupied  a  stage-box,  showed  his  deep 
concern  by  stepping  across  the  rail  to  the  stage,  and, 
before  those  of  the  company  could  reach  her,  lifted 
her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  the  wings.  It  was 
afterward  learned  that  the  rescuer  was  a  nephew  of 
Miss  Miller's." 


XIV 

1VTEWSPAPERS  did  not  reach  the  second 
1  N  floor  front  of  Miss  George's  Nursing 
Home.  Flowers  did,  vaguely  noticed  between 
long  periods  of  unconsciousness;  a  doctor  and 
a  half  a  one — possibly  the  assistant;  two  nurses 
in  white  caps — the  one  at  night,  mild  and  sweet, 
but  the  other,  during  the  day,  capable  and  stern. 
It  came  to  me  now  and  then  what  a  splendid 
bouncer  she  would  have  made  in  a  Bowery 
restaurant — that  day  nurse.  And  once  when  I 
made  believe — no,  I  can't  use  that  word  again — 
allowed  her  to  infer  it  was  delirium,  I  asked 
her  if  she  had  ever  served  in  that  capacity.  As 
a  punishment  I  received  more  of  the  medicine 
in  the  blue  bottle  the  other  side  the  soap-dish, 
and  my  mouth  was  further  stopped  by  the  ther 
mometer. 

Up  to  the  seventh  day  no  guest  stepped  be 
yond  the  threshold  of  my  door.     There  would 
be  timid  knocks,  and  a  page  -  boy  asking  if  a 
lady  could  come  up — which  she  couldn't — or, 
3°5 


THE    ACTRESS 

grown  more  intrepid,  the  lady  would  come  to 
the  door  itself,  and  Frederica's  voice  would 
say,  "Give  her  these,  then,  and  my  love";  or 
the  little,  dovelike  note  of  Hester  would  be 
pleading—  "Just  let  the  gentleman  look  in"; 
and  the  low  tone  of  Aaron  would  augment  her 
wish  by  a  few  deferential  words  as  to  the  per 
fect  wisdom  of  the  nurse,  but  "if  it  could  be." 

At  this  I  would  turn  my  face  to  the  wall  and 
try  not  to  show  how  deeply  Hester's  eager 
sharing  of  her  husband  hurt  me.  So  that  the 
nurse,  who  was  pleased  with  Aaron's  shoulders 
— as  anybody  would  be,  bouncer  or  no — would 
look  over  toward  the  bed  and  answer:  "I'm 
sorry,  sir,  but  she  is  utterly  prostrated.  She 
cannot  speak  a  word.  It's  difficult  to  under 
stand,  for  her  malaria  is  disappearing  rapidly." 

Then  they  would  go  away,  and  I  would  put 
the  sheet  over  my  head,  like  a  naughty  child, 
whispering  to  myself:  "I  can,  too,  speak,  but 
I  just  won't!  I  can,  too,  speak,  but  I  just 
won't!" 

But  that  didn't  happen  until  the  seventh  day, 
when  I  was  getting  better  of  the  chills  and  fever, 
yet  so  far  from  convalescence  that  the  joy  in 
gripping  life  again  had  not  touched  me  with 
its  quick  desire.  "For  what?  For  what  ?"  I 
306 


THE    ACTRESS 

would  sigh  through  the  night,  and  through  the 
day  kept  my  lips  closed  in  mute  despondency. 

On  the  seventh  day  the  door  was  opened  with 
informality,  and  the  bouncer,  starting  to  her 
feet  in  protest,  was  confronted  by  Mrs.  Erskine- 
Waite.  "Madam,  please  do  not  enter;  no  one 
can  see  Miss  Miller." 

"I  can,"  retorted  Mrs.  Erskine-Waite;  then 
turning  to  my  bed:  "I  do.  Rhoda,  my  child,  I 
just  picked  up  an  old  newspaper — 

"Oh,  was  it  in  the  papers  ?"  I  asked,  eagerly, 
only  my  voice  had  not  the  firm  quality  that  it 
once  possessed. 

"There,"  said  the  nurse,  tight-lipped,  "I 
knew  her  silence  was  hysteria."  And  she  gave 
me  awful  pellets  from  a  brown  box  near  the 
bath-sponge. 

But  my  dear  landlady's  arms  were  round 
me,  and  she  was  saying  what  wild  things  they 
were  way  up  in  the  North  of  England  not  to 
read  the  papers  regularly,  and  it  was  only  by 
an  accident,  while  she  was  teaching  Aary  to 
retrieve,  that  he  brought  her  an  old  Comet  with 
the  story  staring  straight  up  in  her  face.  And 
I  grew  choky  at  the  thought  of  my  dog  Aary 
bringing  us  together;  but  when  she  added, 
"And  he  is  here — the  heart-shaped  one  ?  My 
3°7 


THE    ACTRESS 

dear,  it  has  come  out  all  right  ?"  the  cloud  set 
tled  down  on  me  again,  and  Mrs.  Waite  sighed, 
saying:  "Not  yet?  Oh,  Rhoda,  don't  waste 
precious  moments!" 

By  that  time  I  was  really  too  tired  to  tell  her 
any  of  the  story,  or  to  wonder  how  she  could 
have  known  that  Aaron  was  in  town,  and  the 
next  day  I  had  grown  mutinous  again,  for  Mrs. 
Waite  opened  the  door  herself  upon  the  inquir 
ing  voice  of  Hester.  I  heard  her  give  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise,  then  step  into  the  hall, 
closing  the  door  behind  her,  and  for  a  long,  long 
time  the  three  conversed  together.  Aaron  was 
earnest,  anxious,  Hester  interspersing  dialogue 
with  little  shrieks  of  excitement,  and  Mrs.  Waite 
talking  swiftly  and  decidedly.  The  rest  of  the 
day  she  watched  me  with  solicitation  and  some 
cunning,  only  once  breaking  out,  impatiently: 
"You're  better  than  you  think  you  are;  don't 
fight  against  your  good  health,  Rhoda." 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  I  answered,  turning 
on  my  pillows. 

That  was  all  we  said.  And  when  she  left  that 
night  I  feared  perhaps  she  would  not  come 
again,  and  I  cried  hard;  so  she  kissed  me,  and 
was  back  in  the  morning  miraculously  early, 
very  intent  in  prettying  up  my  pretty  room, 
308 


THE    ACTRESS 

fluffing  up  my  hair,  and  putting  me  in  my  best 
nightie,  despite  the  protests  of  the  nurse.  The 
bouncer  only  once  relaxed  her  vigilant  attend 
ance,  and  in  that  moment  Mrs.  Waite  ap 
proached  my  bed  and  almost  hissed  between 
her  teeth:  "Ask  for  a  bird — a  grilled  bird — at 
one." 

"Why?"  I  queried. 

"Because  it  takes  half  an  hour  to  cook,  and 
the  nurse  prepares  it." 

Any  joke  upon  the  day  nurse  appealed  to 
me,  even  though  I  didn't  want  a  bird;  so  after 
lengthy  opposition  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs. 
Waite  should  be  left  in  attendance,  and  at 
twelve-thirty  the  gray  uniform  descended  into 
the  lower  regions.  I  can't  say  that  the  sub 
stitute  behaved  at  all  becomingly.  For  the  first 
five  minutes  she  stood  out  in  the  hall  craning 
her  neck  over  the  stair-rail,  and  at  the  end  of 
that  period  she  advanced  upon  my  bed  with  an 
unflinching  air  that  showed  small  consideration 
for  the  weakness  of  an  invalid. 

"Rhoda,"  she  said,  "your  heart-shaped  pict 
ure  is  on  the  stairs,  and  he's  coming  in.  Pre 
pare." 

"No!"  I  cried;  but  she  had  gone.  I  put  my 
hands  to  my  face  and  wept  weakly;  some  one 
3°9 


THE    ACTRESS 

knelt  by  my  bedside,  slipped  an  arm  under  me, 
took  down  my  hands  with  his  free  one,  and 
kissed  me  gently. 

"No!"  I  cried  again. 

"Why  not?"  said  Aaron. 

"A  husband  mustn't  kiss  me." 

"It  depends  on  who  is  the  wife  of  the  hus 
band." 

"Not  even  Hester's  husband." 

"My  child,  my  child!  Oh,  god  of  love,  what 
a  mix-up!" — his  cheek  against  my  wet  one  on 
the  pillow. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Doing  sentinel  duty  in  the  hall." 

"Hester?" 

"Lord,  no.  Your  dear  Mrs.  Waite.  Hester 
left  for  Paris  this  morning  to  get  her  wedding- 
togs." 

"Then  you're  not  yet — " 

"Rhoda,  we've  just  half  an  hour  while  that 
bird  broils.  Don't  fight;  I've  got  to  have  you 
close  to  me." 

With  a  dexterity  which,  naturally,  I'd  never 
seen  before,  he  encircled  me,  covers  and  all, 
and  I  lay  in  his  arms  in  a  big  chair,  thin  and 
shaky  and  miserable  and  happy.  I  made  an  ef 
fort  to  protest — it  occurred  to  me  a  lady  would 
310 


1    LAY    IN    HIS    ARMS    IN    A    BIG   CHAIR,  THIN   AND    SHAKY  AND 
MISERABLE    AND    HAPPY 


THE    ACTRESS 

do  this — but  oh,  the  restfulness  of  those  strong 
arms  which  held  me  firm! 

"Now,  little  love,  you  let  me  say  right  here, 
before  we  go  back  further,  friend  Hester  is  going 
to  marry  Gregory  Gaines." 

I  turned  my  face  so  that  he  might  not  see  the 
joy  upon  it,  but  it  was  in  the  right  direction, 
my  lips  against  his  ear.  "Who's  he  ?"  I  whis 
pered. 

"He's  Gregory  Gaines;  that's  enough  now." 

It  was  quite  enough  for  me,  so  I  lay  silent. 

"And  I  wish  further  to  state  that  I'm  the 
biggest  fool  that  ever  tried  to  corner  the  love 
market  by  strategy  --  like  all  of  God's  com 
modities,  it  can't  be  handled  that  way.  Only 
I  wanted  you  so  much  —  and  we  clumsy  men 
blunder  in  these  fine  manipulations— 

His  voice  grew  husky,  and  I  patted  feebly 
with  the  hand  that  clutched  his  shoulder.  "It's 
the  cable  that  upset  me  first,"  I  whispered. 
"You  refused  me." 

"Yes,  I  did,  but—" 

"That  last  phrase,  you  know,  'From  present 
situation,  realize  my  condition  not  as  bad  as 
might  be,'"  I  chanted  out. 

Aaron  started.  "What  did  that  mean  to 
you  ?" 


THE    ACTRESS 

"That  you  were  better  off  without  me." 

Then  for  a  moment  I  was  heaped  up  against 
him  as  the  matches-selling  woman  had  lifted  up 
her  baby.  "Oh,  my  girl,  my  girl!  And  I 
thought  I  was  telling  you  that  at  last  I  believed 
there  was  some  real  chance  for  me." 

We  could  not  laugh  at  this;  a  long  summer 
had  passed  away  in  sorrow  from  that  one 
phrase.  We  clung  to  each  other  tightly  for  a 
moment,  then  he  went  on: 

''When  your  answer  came  forbidding  me  to 
write  to  you,  I  supposed  that  even  then  you 
were  going  out  buying  up  silk  petticoats  and 
satin  slippers  and  all  those  dear,  ridiculous 
things  that  Hester  takes  an  interest  in  just 
now.  That  was  because  I,  in  the  serenity  of 
my  enormous  vanity,  was  looking  for  a  home 
for  us." 

"The  farm?" 

"Of  course,  dear.  Hester  said  she  told 
you." 

It  was  awful;  but  every  time  that  Hester's 
name  was  mentioned  a  great  pall  settled  down 
upon  me.  It  was  the  close  association  of  so 
many  hours  of  bitterness  with  those  six  meek 
little  letters.  Still,  I  behaved.  "Go  on,"  I  said. 

"  It  was  hard  to  keep  away  from  you,  but  as 
312 


THE    ACTRESS 

my  love  was  growing  every  minute,  I  thought 
yours  would  be,  too,  and — 

"Did  you  never  think  that  it  was  cruel  to 
treat  me  like  that,  Aaron  ?" 

He  hesitated.  "I  had  tried  the  other  way  for 
so  long,  Rhoda,  and  to  so  little  purpose.  Don't 
loathe  me."  And  I  knew  I  didn't,  although  I 
should.  It's  a  way  we  women  have. 

"Go  on  some  more." 

"I  never  could  have  stood  it  if  you  had  not 
written  Hester.  I  hung  round  that  family  un 
til  I  felt  I  ought  to  pay  my  board,  and  with  the 
airiness  of  an  old  whale  would  introduce  your 
name.  Wonderful  they  never  tumbled." 

"Too  busy  whaling."     But  this  I  murmured. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"Nothing;  my  feet  are  cold." 

Aaron  saw  to  that — bed-socks,  awful — still, 
he  saw  to  that. 

"I  nearly  got  cold  feet  myself  during  the 
dog-days.  That  letter  I  tried  to  sneak  to  you 
under  cover  of  Hester's  handwriting  would  have 
shown  I  was  a  quitter.  I  begged  you  to  come 
home,  or  to  let  me  come  to  you — oh,  I  was  in 
the  dust!  But  you  sent  it  back,  and  your  fierce 
little  spirit  gave  me  the  courage  to  go  on." 

My  fierce  little  spirit!  Running  through  the 
3'3 


THE    ACTRESS 

streets  of  London  to  read  his  message,  and  the 
fresh  Amelia  posting  it!  I  wriggled  up  my 
nose  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  my  child's  giggle  once  again!"  ex 
claimed  Aaron  Adams.  We  stopped  talking 
for  a  while. 

Then,  with  some  courage:  "And  Hester, 
Aaron,  she  wrote  as  if— 

Here  there  was  more  hesitation.  "She  was 
at  the  age,  darling,  when  love  was  very  wel 
come,  and  she  stood  listening  for  the  wings. 
There  wasn't  any  doubt  in  her  mind  who  had 
them  on  when  Gregory  Gaines  came  flapping 
in  with  his  nice  young  ones  sprouting.  She  put 
on  hers,  and  all  through  August  they  soared 
around  the  country  lanes,  and  never  touched 
the  earth  until  they  went  to  speak  to  father. 
Old  Charles  hasn't  much  use  for  these  first 
flights,  and  in  that  way  Hester  turned  to  me, 
not  having  any  mother  to  do  her  pleading.  So 
I  played  the  go-between,  bearing  with  the  old 
man's  grouches,  mixing  mint-juleps,  and  finally 
offering  Gregory  a  partnership,  at  which  my 
friend  turned  on  me  and  said  he  thought  he 
could  take  care  of  his  own  son-in-law  without 
any  damned  —  excuse  me  —  interference.  So 
after  that  it  was  all  right." 
3H 


THE    ACTRESS 

There  were  some  proprietary  pattings  here, 
and  a  sorry  feeling  for  old  Charles,  for  I  could 
see  how  the  buying  of  the  farm-house  had  mis 
led  him;  but  that  big  Aaron  never  once  sus 
pected.  With  all  his  craftiness,  he  was  a  sim 
ple  creature. 

Pattings  over,  he  went  on:  "In  exchange  for 
Hester's  confidences  one  night,  I  suddenly  un 
burdened — couldn't  help  it,  dear.  The  moon 
was  shining — do  you  recall  that  harvest  moon  ?" 
(Oh,  that  August  moon,  me,  and  the  composer! 
I  tucked  a  red  face  against  Aaron's  coat.)  "I'd 
been  rather  proud  up  to  that  time,  bought  the 
house,  of  course,  and  stood  all  the  chaffing  that 
naturally  is  coming  to  a  bachelor  who  insists 
upon  a  pink  brocaded-satin  bedroom." 

"No,  Aaron!     Pink— how  lovely!" 

A  beatific  state  ensued. 

"So  I  told  her.  Of  course,  she  was  delighted. 
The  minute  a  girl  gets  engaged  she  wants  her 
friends  to  be  so,  too." 

"Yes,  I  know — there's  Frederica." 

"No;  that  big,  flopping  girl!     To  whom?" 

"A  kangaroo." 

"Fine — but  let  me  get  on;  I  fear  I  smell  that 
bird." 

"There's  ten  more  minutes,"  I  said,  looking 
3'5 


THE    ACTRESS 

at  the  clock.  Why  docs  the  practical  enter  into 
all  the  delirious  moments  of  a  woman's  happi 
ness  ?  I  had  been  vigilant  of  the  passing  time 
from  the  beginning  of  his  —  well,  to  be  quite 
formal,  call. 

Aaron  adopted  a  disgusted  air  as  he  resumed: 
:'Then,  my  dear,  I  reached  the  top  notch  of 
fooler}',  for  I  let  that  Hester  thing  plan  all  the 
rest.  You  see,  having  captured  a  tall,  skinny 
lad  of  twenty-four,  she  felt  herself  quite  com 
petent  to  manage  every  other  campaign  of  the 
heart.  And,  girl,  I  myself  was  beaten  out.  I 
hadn't  an  idea  left.  I  used  to  walk  over  to 
that  empty  house  and  wonder  how  I  ever  could 
corral  you  and  get  you  into  it." 

"Oh,  Aaron,  and  you  had  but  to  open  the 
door!" 

"I  thought  of  that,  but  that  was  far  too  sim- 

O  ' 

pie  for  friend  Hester.  She  wanted  one  of  those 
infernal  surprises.  I've  always  hated  'em,  and 
hated  people  who  cook  them  up,  and  the  great 
est  surprise  of  all  is  that  you  don't  hate  me  for 
lending  myself  to  the  scheme." 

A  pause  here,  but  short,  as  there  was  not 
much  time. 

"So  I  agreed  to  come  over  to  England  with 
old  Charles  and  herself.  She  wouldn't  write 
316 


THE    ACTRESS 

and  tell  you  her  plans  at  all,  and  for  three  weeks 
those  fiends  put  off  their  crossing  until  I  stopped 
speaking  to  them  altogether.  The  Lord  knows, 
I  wasn't  much  better  on  the  steamer,  and  when 
I  reached  this  town  I  was  like  a  crazy  thing. 
I  sneaked  off  without  Hester's  knowing  and 
went  to  the  theatre,  but  they  wouldn't  give  me 
your  address,  after  that  rotten  fashion  of  theirs, 
so  I  sent  eight  tons  of  flowers  around  to  the 
stage  door  and  a  heart  drawn  with  a  red  pencil 
on  my  card,  just  to  break  it  gently  to  you  that 
I  was  in  sight.  Said  flowers,  I  may  add,  eventu 
ally  reached  a  fluffy  young  lady  in  the  Gay 
Gordons'  Company,  and  provoked  some  mirth; 
but  this  developed  afterward.  Then  I  drove 
around  all  afternoon  with  Hester,  because  they 
were  your  streets— 

"You  almost  ran  me  down." 

"My  girl!" 

A  short  interruption. 

"And  ended  in  a  blaze  of  asininity  by  sitting 
with  Hester  in  that  box,  old  Charles  too  land- 
sick  to  go,  and  you  thinking — 

"Thinking  you  were  bride  and  groom,"  I  fin 
ished.  "Young  English  couples  don't  go  to  the 
theatre  together.  I  had  forgotten." 

"Oh,    my    British    Rhoda!"    jeered    Aaron. 


THE    ACTRESS 

"And  my  plucky  Rhoda,  playing  to  the  very 
end!  But  when  you  fell,  dear,  and  I  stepped 
over  to  the  stage  to  pick  you  up,  I  saw  at  last 
that  I  had  used  a  bludgeon  to  win  my  little 
love." 

"You  stepped  where!"  I  exclaimed,  in  be 
wilderment. 

"Humph — you  don't  know,  then?  Me,  in 
the  papers,"  said  Aaron,  feeling  for  his  press 
notice  and  displaying  it  with  pride.  But  I  tore 
it  up,  not  caring  for  the  aunt  allusion.  And 
Aaron  laughed,  cuddling  me  up  once  more. 
"But  oh,  my  dear  heart,  it's  all  over — it's  all 
over,  and  I  shall  never  let  you  out  of  these 
arms  again." 

The  door  was  flung  open.  "Put  her  back, 
quick!  She's  coming!"  gasped  Mrs.  Waite.  And 
in  half  a  minute  I  was  once  more  out  of  those 
arms  and  flat  in  bed,  with  Mrs.  Erskine- Waite 
and  Mr.  Aaron  Adams  discreetly  talking  in  the 
hallway. 

"I  should  think,  Mr.  Adams,"  said  the 
bouncer,  bearing  in  the  bird,  "you  could  spend 
a  little  time  with  Miss  Miller  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  nurse,"  replied  Mr.  Adams. 
"I  shall  call  at  lunch-time." 

"Do  come,"  was  wafted  faintly  from  the  bed. 


THE    ACTRESS 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  most  glorious 
convalescence  that  ever  came  to  a  sick  girl, 
made  whole  again  by  love  and  port  and  qui 
nine,  although  the  bouncer  dated  my  recovery 
from  the  eating  of  the  bird.  "Once  they  begin 
to  take  an  interest  in  their  meals,"  she  told  us, 
"then  I  begin  to  pack  my  things." 

At  the  end  of  another  week  I  had  been  moved 
to  Brown's  Hotel,  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Waite. 
"She  really  needs  more  room  for  flowers,"  she 
gave  in  explanation. 

"And  more  room  for  callers,"  she  might  have 
added;  for  each  afternoon,  as  I  lay  through  tea- 
time  in  the  chaise-longue  in  her  private  draw 
ing-room,  the  company  dropped  in  to  chat 
with  me.  And  I  watched  Aaron  sitting  there 
among  them,  offering  tin-foil  cigars  to  Mr. 
Benny,  who  tendered  great  discoveries  in  ex 
change,  laughing  at  Bruce's  stories  of  the  road 
or  Frederica's  imitations  of  himself  bearing 
away  his  fainting  Indian  "aunt,"  escorting 
Bella  to  and  from  the  lift,  admiring  little  knitted 
invalid  affairs  that  Mrs.  Farquhar  fashioned 
for  me,  and  taking  them  all  out  in  a  new  motor 
he  had  just  bought  when  my  nap-hour  arrived. 

He  never  ceased  to  marvel  at  their  kindness 
to  me,  and  saw  no  humor  in  the  red  tomatoes 


THE    ACTRESS 

Mr.  Benny  brought  me,  though  his  lips  did 
twitch  when  Larry  let  us  all  infer  that  he  would 
not  complain  since  she  was  going  to  a  better 
fellow. 

"Rhoda,"  he  said,  one  day,  when  they  had 
left  us,  "I  know  now  what  you  are  giving  up 
for  me — the  comradeship,  I  mean — the  kernel 
of  you  all,  of  which  I'd  only  seen  the  shell. 
But,  dear  girl,  don't  lose  them,  keep  your  old 
friends  about  you;  I'll  make  them  my  friends, 
too." 

I  shook  my  head  while  I  squeezed  Aaron's 
ringers,  for  I  knew  I  would  be  no  longer  of 
them  when  I  left  my  work.  They  would  be  the 
ones  to  leave  me,  not  I  them,  for  the  spirit  of 
the  stroller  is  as  that  of  the  gypsy,  who  is  ac 
customed  to  great  distances,  to  open  spaces, 
to  many  peoples,  yet  does  not  step  beyond  his 
band. 

But  I  kissed  Aaron  in  surprise  and  pleasure, 
and  we  had  more  confidences  from  day  to  day, 
between  looking  at  the  samples  of  soft  satin 
— for  I  was  to  be  a  real  bride  all  in  white — and 
short  fittings  from  modistes  who  came  to  me. 
I  told  him  both  of  Bunny  and  of  the  composer; 
and  Aaron  chewed  a  cigarette,  saying:  "It's 
good  for  me,  no  doubt;  keeps  down  my  vanity." 
320 


THE    ACTRESS 

And  Mrs.  Waite  told  him  of  herself  one  day 
while  I  was  out,  returning  just  as  he  was  stoop 
ing  reverently  to  kiss  her  hand. 

The  only  thing  that  bothered  me  in  those 
days  was  the  desertion  of  my  role.  To  be  sure, 
I  had  written  little  notes  as  soon  as  my  hand 
would  let  me,  asking  both  the  English  manager 
and  Mr.  Cutting  please  could  I  be  excused  from 
coming  back,  as  I  would  like  to  be  a  bride,  and 
they  had  replied  wishing  me  type-written  happi 
ness.  But  I  knew  that  they  had  tried  three 
Sarahs,  and,  while  the  third  one  had  stayed  on, 
I  felt  a  little  guilty  in  quitting  without  the 
proper  notice;  and  though  I  never  said  it  even 
to  Frederica,  I  often  wondered  just  how  they 
managed  to  get  along  without  me. 

I  found  out.  Aaron  had  driven  me  down  the 
night  before  the  wedding,  that  I  might  say 
good-bye  to  the  manager  and  those  I  would  not 
see  again.  He  stood  by  the  motor  while  I  went 
inside  the  lobby;  but  the  official  in  the  box- 
office  told  me  that  they  were  "counting  up," 
and  would  I  wait  ?  And  I  would  wait,  looking 
at  the  pictures  of  the  stars  who  had  had  their 
day  and  were  scarcely  memories,  until  a  great 
laugh  from  the  house  billowed  out  beyond 
the  heavy  velvet  curtains  at  the  door,  and, 
321 


THE    ACTRESS 

pushing  past  them,  I  idled  into  the  audito 
rium. 

She  was  on  the  stage,  the  new  half-breed, 
quite  different  from  me:  taller,  deeper-voiced, 
doing  things  I  had  not  done,  reading  lines  as 
I  had  not  read  them,  yet  harvesting  her  laughs 
with  the  skill  of  the  woman  who  knows  how. 
What  points  she  missed  that  I  had  made  she 
recovered  on  new  ones,  and  "they"  were  laugh 
ing  just  the  same — the  crowd  of  men  and  women 
who  came  to  be  amused. 

A  low  voice  startled  me.  "Not  sorry,  are 
you  ?"  and  I  looked  at  Junius  Cutting — Junius, 
who  had  just  come  over  with  a  brand-new  pict 
ure  of  a  brand-new  baby,  and  was  very  strong 
for  domesticity. 

I  drew  in  my  breath,  but  answered,  with  sin 
cerity:  "Indeed,  I'm  not!" 

"That's  right,"  he  said;  "you  threw  us 
down,  but  I  wish  to  the  Lord  that  every  girl 
would  do  it  who  can  get  a  husband.  There's 
nothing  in  this."  Another  laugh  rolled  up. 

"Not  for  me,  I  know,"  I  answered.  The 
laughter  swelled.  "But  as  for  her" — I  looked 
toward  the  stage — "that's  pretty  good.  She's 
playing  well,  too,  isn't  she  ?" 

"Oh,  she'll  do,"  he  nodded,  absently.  I 
322 


THE    ACTRESS 

swallowed  hard.  Then,  with  an  instinctive 
knowledge  of  just  what  I  needed,  Junius  put 
out  his  hand.  "She  can't  touch  you,  my  dear." 

"She's  better,"  I  said,  resolutely.  "And  that 
is  all  right,  too.  Good-bye,  dear  Junius  Cut- 
ting." 

In  this  manner  my  stage  career  was  closed. 


XV 


girl's  wedding  is  the  most  beautiful 
— <  of  all  others,  but  I  think  mine  was  really  the 
most  beautiful.  In  the  first  place,  not  every  one 
can  have  Amelia  dress  her,  or  engage  an  old 
commissionnaire,  with  an  extra  medal  acquired 
that  summer,  to  announce  the  names — or  mar 
ry  Aaron  Adams,  for  that  matter.  It  was  no 
trouble  for  the  stage  doorman  to  call  us  out 
correctly,  as  only  the  members  of  the  com 
pany  were  present — and  Frederica's  kangaroo 
man.  Sir  William  and  Mrs.  Waite  did  not 
count,  being  the  host  and  hostess,  and  of  course 
Hester  and  old  Charles  Bateman  were  there. 
Old  Charles  came  in  with  Aaron,  looking  very 
brave,  as  though  it  were  the  mating  he  would 
have  most  desired. 

I  had  no  attendants,  for  I  had  been  torn  be 
tween  choosing  Frederica  or  politely  asking 
Hester,  and,  while  I  longed  for  both,  that  would 
have  been  slighting  Bella,  and  if  all  three  of 
them  were  chosen  that  would  have  left  so  few 
324 


THE    ACTRESS 

guests  outside  the  flower  -  chancel  that  they 
would  have  been  quite  lonely.  So  I  had  only 
my  dog  Aary,  which  Sir  William  had  brought 
down. 

We  had  not  counted  on  Aary  being  an  attend 
ant,  but  by  great  industry  he  had  chewed 
through  his  leash  and  rode  all  the  way  across 
the  drawing-room  on  my  nice  satin  train.  Mrs. 
Waite  laughed  aloud  at  this — a  short  laugh, 
however  —  explaining  afterward  that  it  had 
come  to  her  just  then,  for  the  first  time,  why  I 
had  named  the  puppy  Aary.  The  contempla 
tion  of  her  obtuseness  kept  her  happy  through 
the  ceremony,  she  asserted,  so  she  wasn't  sorry. 

And  old  Charles  Bateman  said  that  he  was 
glad  he  had  not  been  alone  in  taking  the  occa 
sion  as  one  of  some  festivity.  This  was  directed 
fiercely  at  the  rest  of  us,  for  as  soon  as  the 
clergyman  had  opened  up  his  prayer-book  the 
company  all  began  to  cry,  poor  Aaron  slipping 
me  his  handkerchief  with  the  ring.  Yes,  I  cried, 
too.  I  didn't  feel  much  like  it,  but  I  didn't 
want  my  dear  fraternity  to  think  that  I  had 
ceased  to  be  unlike  them  just  because  I  was 
getting  married  to  a  broker. 

To  be  sure,  as  soon  as  the  service  was  over, 
and  I  had  kissed  every  soul  in  the  room,  and 
325 


THE    ACTRESS 

Aaron  all  the  girls,  we  were  laughing  again 
and  giving  imitations  of  ourselves  crying — all 
except  Larry,  who  managed  to  keep  gloomy 
until  we  were  past  the  Chablis  at  breakfast. 
Then  he  brightened  up,  and  promised  to  come 
to  all  my  week-end  parties  and  tell  me  truth 
fully  of  "her." 

Speeches  were  made — fearful  ones,  for  actors 
don't  manage  their  own  lines  as  well  as  other 
people's  —  and  toasts  were  drunk,  Aaron  pro 
posing  a  bumper  "to  the  world  of  make-believe, 
where  weary  mortals  find  their  lost  illusions," 
which  we  all  drank  standing,  feeling  very  much 
excited  and  united.  But  it  was  a  simple  break 
fast,  and  we  talked  "shop"  all  through  it,  Mr. 
Benny  telling  the  "divine"  why  clergymen 
were  always  funny  on  the  stage—  "  because  they 
wuz  so  true  to  life" — and  Bella  advising  old 
Charles  Bateman  to  put  green  around  his  eyes 
if  he  wanted  brilliancy,  although  he  said  he 
didn't,  and  other  pleasant  happenings. 

When  I  came  back  from  putting  on  my 
motor-gown,  for  we  were  to  do  a  little  touring 
before  going  home,  they  were  gathered  around 
the  piano  singing  to  Bella's  playing  —  old 
Charles,  Sir  William,  the  commissionnaire 
(discreetly  in  the  rear),  and  all.  Aaron  and  I 
326 


THE    ACTRESS 

sang  with  them,  too,  for  a  while,  but  I  caught 
the  sudden  throb  of  an  engine  in  quiet  Albe- 
marle  Street,  Mrs.  Waite  looked  at  me  mean 
ingly,  and  Aaron  touched  me  on  the  hand, 
nodding  toward  the  half-open  door  to  which 
the  company's  backs  were  turned. 

The  dreaded  moment  when  I  must  say  good 
bye  had  come.  How  could  I  manage  it  ? — how 
would  they  stand  it  ?  And  then  Bella's  clear 
voice  broke  into  the  "Birthday  Song,"  and  they 
crowded  close  around  her,  leaving  Aaron  and 
me  on  the  edge — leaving  Aaron  and  me  a  little 
out  of  it. 

"'My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these,"5 
sang  Bella. 

" '  Because  my  love  is  come  to  me,' " 
rang  out  Larry's  charming  tenor. 

"  '  Is  come — is  come  to  me,' ': 

chorused  the  others. 

Mrs.  Waite  beckoned  at  the  door.  I  started 
to  lay  my  hand  on  Frederica's  shoulder,  but 
Aaron  drew  me  from  her.  Out  in  the  corridor 

327 


THE    ACTRESS 

I  once  more  protested;  but  the  voices,  chiming 
all  together  now,  seemed  independent  of  us. 

" '  The  birthday  of  my  life  is  come, 
Is  come — is  come  to  me/ ' 

sang  the  players. 

I  turned  to  Aaron.  "Oh,  my  dear,  big  love, 
they  are  my  people!" 

"Yes,"  said  Aaron,  "but  it  is  our  birthday!" 

I  put  my  hand  in  his,  and  we  went  on. 

As  the  door  of  the  motor  closed  upon  us  the 
refrain  floated  out  through  the  drawing-room 
windows,  but  I  leaned  back  against  the  cush 
ions  with  a  nod  of  restored  happiness  to  my  per 
fectly  new  husband. 

"Anyway,  I  had  music  on  my  exit,"  said 
Mrs.  Aaron  Adams. 


THE    END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


"tftffe 


2 


••-• 


A     000138723     2 


